


Scars Of Old

by ferowyn



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, All the feels for Fili'n'Kili, Aragorn is adorable, Beta Wanted, Drama, Durincest, Dáin rocks, F/M, Family, Fiki, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, I am melodramatic, Legli, Like really slow, M/M, So It's Not My Fault, Thilbo, also my muse (Selina) might be pregnant, and those two are being slow, bagginshield, but they always did what they wanted, gimgolas, it's rather embarassing at this point, just to explain the occasional mood swings, lots of fighting too, lots of head-canon, movieverse, please stay with me, some parts are rather Gary Sue, sorry for that, this is going to be looong, this is my baby, time-travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 154,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up in a time that has long gone by is as confusing as it is terrifying. The latter especially rings true when Gimli realizes that he is going to meet people he has mourned for decades... and that he might have come here alone. Also, what if - what if he cannot change all the wrongs that happened the last time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It’s a long time since I saw you round here

**Author's Note:**

> **1\. It’s a long time since I saw you round here**
> 
> _(The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 4: A Short Cut to Mushrooms)_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> This is a fill for a Hobbit Kink Meme Prompt  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/702.html?thread=524990#t524990  
> and it's going to be rather long-ish.
> 
>  
> 
> I adjusted some things to fit with my story line, and there’s lots and lots of head-canon in this.  
> Also, it’s movie-verse.
> 
> This is the longest piece I’ve ever written, and I care about it a lot, so please forgive me if Gimli or Legolas got too Gary Sue at some points. I tried to reign them in, I really did, but they just keep doing what they want.  
> Also, about the fighting scenes – I’m actually training historic European swordfighting, so I know a little about that. However, I found no proper translations of the names for blows and such that I learned, so you’ll have to live with the way I did describe it ^^
> 
> So, I'll probably post once a week, if TouchoftheWind is fine with that.

### 1\. It’s a long time since I saw you round here

Gimli awakes with a start, being ripped from his dreams – dreams about war and blood and death, but he can cope with that – by a terrified scream. A scream he would never want to hear drawn from anyone’s mouth who is kin, and least of all from his mother’s.

He has rolled out of the unfamiliar (too soft, too big, too warm) bed within seconds, hands reflexively reaching towards where his ax is laying, always ready to be drawn – because that is what war does to you, it takes away your inner peace and you will never regain it completely, and it is war that he has seen, plenty of it, raw and brutal. However, his axes are not where they are supposed to be and for a second his heart stops (for how is he supposed to protect his mother from whatever terror is making her scream like that?) but then he sees her, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, and he forgets to breathe. Or to look for his axes.

Because it is clearly he who has made her scream, there is no other threat to be found in the room.

And now that he has time to try and calm down, time to will his iron hard muscles to relax, he takes a closer look at her. And he forgets all about axes and battles again, for this clearly is the woman who has carried and born him. The woman who has given her everything just to make him happy, who would have gone to Mordor and back if only to grant him a happy childhood.

He would know her anywhere, anytime.

Yet it is not the mother he remembers having said goodbye to just a few weeks prior.

Distantly he recalls travelling to Erebor with Legolas, after the coronation, after Aragorn had taken his rightful place at last. Middle-Earth had been in an uproar, so much had been destroyed, so many lives had been lost. They had been at peace, though, a hard won peace, and despite their huge losses everyone had been celebrating the end of the war. Everyone had been hailing the members of the fellowship, and he and his dear friend had fled the excitement and hidden in the comparatively quiet Lonely Mountain. He had finally had the elf who means so much to him meet his family, despite his father’s prejudices – it had gone fairly well, actually, nothing but insults had been exchanged, no fights or declarations of war – and he remembers the happiness in his mother’s eyes very well. Because, in spite of everything (elves, and dwarves, and denial of assistance, and Thorin, and Thranduil, and _Erebor_ ), she had simply been happy that he was.

They had left after a few weeks and spent a little more time in the woodelven king’s realm, turning the table – he had entertained both of them bickering with Thranduil and competing with elves, and another couple of weeks later they had left again. Via Rohan they had wandered back towards Minas Tirith, planning to aid Aragorn with whatever he might need, for there would always be problems knocking at the King’s door. After all, while there might be peace now, chaos still reigns; and while the hobbits may have returned to their Shire, the last three of the fellowship just cannot imagine leaving the time they had travelled and fought together behind like it has never happened. Aragorn may be King now, and Sauron may be defeated – but they are still the elf, dwarf and ranger who pledged alliance to a tiny halfling, and who even went to bargain with the dead together. There is nothing that can separate them, not even the end of the war and a silly crown.

Or so Gimli had thought.

He remembers leaving Rohan, with King Eomer’s best wishes and a message for his sister, now wife of Faramir. They had been following the North-South-Road to Gondor and the last he can recall is falling asleep next to his dear friend, underneath a tree and the White Mountains in their back.

How in Mahal’s name can he be in a room and where on Middle-Earth is Legolas?

He looks at his mother again and takes in the differences. Her hair and beard are of a beautiful, fiery red again, the white he had looked upon only weeks ago gone. The deep worry lines on her face have vanished into thin air as well as the weariness in her eyes. She had worried greatly during the war, knowing that her son was off and away, being a hero and risking his life in the process. Although he had come home whole and alive, those lines and the look in her eyes would never leave her face again, not after she had counted and internalized every single new scar. It had pained her to let him go when she had just gotten him back, when she had finally known that he lived, and it had broken Gimli’s heart to start out again, leaving her and her worries with his father. However, he could not have stayed. The elf had no place among dwarves, inside their mountain halls, and being without him is something Gimli has never even dared think about.

 _Does_ not even dare think about.

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind. Instead he takes a closer look at his mother and sees that she has gotten her agility back, standing tall and strong, and that she is wearing simple, modest clothes. Hardly befitting for one of the line of Durin!

Growing more nervous and confused by the second he takes a look around and finds himself in a room he is alarmingly familiar with. A room he has not seen in eighty years. How can he be in his old dwarfling’s room in the _Ered Luin?_

He opens his mouth to say something (not exactly sure what it will be) when the door bursts open and his father rushes into the room, ax drawn.

“What is going on here?”

Then he takes a look at Gimli and is dumbfounded.

Gimli stares at him as well, his hair and beard of as burning a red as his wife’s, the white gone. It is probably the shock that makes him say “Am I that horrible to look at?” and maybe the relief to hear his own voice, deep and rough as it is supposed to be, that adds “This smells like time travel. Even an elf would know.”

Then the last thing he expects happens. His mother, who has stopped screaming and has just been staring at him for the past few moments, calmer, and with a deep relief in her eyes, begins to laugh. Hysterically. His father joins in and soon Gimli cannot resist any longer, his deep baritone ringing through the room along with theirs.

It silences them rather quickly.

His mother looks into his eyes and smiles. “You are still my Gimli,” she says, her voice calm. “Although you are not the Gimli I put to bed and tucked in last night.”

For a second he blushes at the thought of being tucked in – if the elf knew that! – but quickly regains his composure. “Aye, I am Gimli Glóin’s son,” he agrees. “And I have no idea how I got here… into my old room in the Blue Mountains.”

“Your old room,” his father says slowly, squinting his eyes. “Tell me… _son_ … Where were you last?”

“I fell asleep in a small wood along the North-South-Road.”

“-In a _wood_?”

“-What were you doing on the North-South-Road?”

Gimli snickers, but nods, answers both questions. “Aye, in a wood. I was travelling with a friend, towards Minas Tirith.”

“What would you be doing in Minas Tirith?”

He looks at his father. “I assume you have not the slightest idea who Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is?”

Glóin shakes his head.

“Where I come from he is King of Gondor, and a dear friend of mine.”

For a few minutes they stay quiet.

“ _Where_ you come from…” his mother finally says, slowly. “Rather _when_ you come from. Tell me, Gimli, son of Glóin” she darts her husband a loving glance “how old are you?”

“A hundred and forty,” he answers, finally sitting down on the bed. He sees his parents gasp for air.

“Yesterday evening you were only sixty-two,” Glóin whispers when his wife seems unable to do so.

Gimli quickly counts backwards. “We are still in the Ered Luin – thus you have not left for Erebor yet?”

His father’s eyes grow huge when he realizes what this means. “You know the future.”

“It certainly seems so,” he agrees, his thoughts running wild. He knows what will happen – to Thorin, Fíli and Kíli; and later to Balin and Óin and Ori. And he has to keep all this dreadful knowledge to himself, nobody can find out. Oh, this is going to be torture.

“We are to meet with Thorin in the Shire two fortnights from now. Gandalf the Grey promised he would find a burglar for us,” Glóin explains, eyes squinted. “Do… you know whether we will survive? Whether we will be successful?”

Gimli hesitates. “Aye… I do know. However, I cannot tell you.”

His father seems to be about to protest, but his mother nods firmly.

“He is right, Glóin. Until we know more about the situation we cannot risk changing anything.” She smiles at him, then motions at the mirror. “It seems to be a given that you have travelled through time, my dear son. Look.”

He follows her instruction, taking the few steps that are necessary to carry him towards the slightly opaque piece and looks at his reflexion. At first sight he does not even flinch, for this is how he is supposed to be looking, is it not? This is what he had looked like when he had stepped in front of a mirror the last time, in Mirkwood. His beard is magnificent, still adorned by the braids the elf has woven into it, not knowing what that means to dwarves, and the plaits in his hair are still there as well. His skin is tanned and weather-beaten, there are scars where they should be and none where they should not, and his eyes are dark and grim and wary, as always. They are eyes that have seen war. However; there is also that glint of both hope and excitement that has always shone there.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that, while it certainly feels right, this is not at all what he is supposed to look like.

How is this possible?

What kind of wicked magic is able to send someone into the past?

His mother smiles sadly when she sees the look on his face. “You have seen terrible things,” she says, looking into his eyes. “I can tell. What happened? I do not ask for details,” she quickly adds.

His expression darkens as he knots his brows. He knows, he can see it in his reflexion. “War,” he answers, crisply, and it is all he is going to say on the matter.

His mother’s eyes are full of sorrow. “I am sorry,” she says.

Gimli forces a smile. “I am well now,” he tries to reassure her. “However, I would feel far better if I knew what has come to pass. I cannot recall seeing anything unusual happening… as I believe I should have, were any _normal_ magic involved in this.” Magic like Gandalf’s.

His father frowns. “You have come into contact with magic?”

“I have been friends with a wizard, and he has told us quite many a tale in lonely nights.” In order to drive away the nightmares that were waiting for them the second they would close their eyes, especially for the hobbits. “This must be due to a greater power. Actually… I think there are records of time travels, but none of them resembled the situation I seem to have found myself in.”

“Records?” Glóin asks, eyebrows raised.

Gimli knows his face goes blank. “Aye. Elven records.” (This is what happens if you stay in Rivendell and call a terribly nosy woodelf your friend. There are not many topics Legolas did _not_ try to research in Lord Elrond’s vast libraries when they were waiting for Frodo to recover.) His eyes are daring his father to say anything about elves in general and said woodelf in particular.

The older one hesitates. “And you are sure they are accurate?” His mistrust is clearly audible.

“Very sure. From what I have heard a few elves have travelled through time. Some of them willingly – they were sent back in time by the pooled forces of wizards and elves and could only exist once, never next to their younger self, for they would be returned to their own time the second they were born. They could never stay any longer than a few hours, and had they changed anything, they would probably have destroyed our world, if I understood correctly. Obviously they did not ever attempt to find out – it was used to solve crimes long gone that were still affecting them. Others travelled involuntarily and they woke up in their old bodies, as young as they had been at that time but with memories they should not have. They were sent back to change history, and never returned to the timeline they had come from,” Gimli recalls what Gandalf had told them when Frodo had asked whether time travel was possible. Whether they could go back to the point when Isildur had not cast the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. He also remembers the wizard’s answer to the latter question.

_Those who were capable of doing powerful magic like that have long left these shores. Also, we could not risk changing history. Mortals are not meant to temper with time; not even we immortals are. We may be able to alter our own fates, but to alter time is beyond our capability._

Legolas, curious soul that he is, had researched the matter when they had returned to Rivendell after the final battle, finding everything Gandalf had told them to be true.

Glóin nods thoughtfully.

“So how can it be that you have been transported back with your older body? Your young self is no longer here, or he would be in this room. You exist only once, in your true age, but in a time where you already live. Do you think you have been sent here? That you should change something?” His mother looks worried.

He takes a deep breath, smiles at her. “I do not know what has happened,” he tries to soothe the woman who bore him, his voice as calm and reassuring as he can manage “but I am sure that we will find out. We will know what to do in due time. And I am still your Gimli, even if I have lived through much more than the son you know. However, my love for you has never dwindled and I shall never stop being your son.”

There are tears in her eyes and his father’s smile is a little crooked.

“Aye,” he says. “You will always be our son.”

His mother walks towards him, gently knocks her forehead against his. “Our son,” she repeats. “Who has gone through times of great pain and sorrow, and yet you are standing strong – even if I may not know what it is that you have witnessed, I am proud of you. You do seem to be the warrior you always wanted to grow up to be.”

“I am,” Gimli says and he does feel the pride flowing through his veins then. He is a hero in the time he has come from, and while he might curse the war and all the pain it has brought upon him, it has joined him with the elf and he cannot regret that, never. He would march against the armies of Mordor a thousand times over, trying to buy two little hobbits more time, if it was what was necessary. Because the elf would be marching at his side, and that would give him the strength to do anything.

 _Anything_.

Glóin smiles proudly and also knocks his forehead against his son’s.

“What are we going to do now?”

Gimli cocks his head and ponders. Oh, if the elf were here – he would know what to do! The dwarf freezes. What- … if the other has not travelled through time with him? What if they are to meet and Legolas no longer recognizes him, being the age he should be? He feels cold fear creep into his bones and his heart stops beating for a second.

There is no way he is going to make it through this strange, trying situation without the elf. Without someone he knows inside out, without someone who has lived through the same hardships, without someone who has survived against all odds and come out stronger as well.

Without Legolas.

His sudden fear must have shown on his face, for it is his mother’s hand on his arms that tears him from his dark thoughts. “What is it, dear?”

He supresses the shudder that is threatening to shake his muscles and answers, hesitantly: “I… was just thinking… am I the only one who… was sent back?”

“I see.” She nods then, understanding shining in her eyes. “You said you were not travelling alone.” Her eyes are far too knowing. “Have you found your One?”

Gimli wants to shake his head, to lie, because nobody can know what he really feels for the elf, never; however – he is well aware that there is no way of keeping things like this from his mother. She will find out, no matter how hard he might try to keep it from her. Mothers always do. “… Aye,” he admits, reluctantly. “We… were on our way to Gondor after visiting you, and then his family.”

“His. So your partner is male.” Her curiosity is only too clearly visible in her eyes and she seems to be hungry for every bit and piece of information.

He flinches upon hearing the word _partner_. “He is.”

She pouts when he does not say more and Glóin chuckles softly. “Send him a raven?”

“I will.” Gimli smiles and takes a deep breath. That is a good idea. He is going to find out whether _his_ elf is here as well, and until he knows – there is no use in panicking. Forcibly calming himself down he tries to return to the matter at hand. “I cannot change anything,” he begins, slowly, “not as long as we do not know why I am here, anyway. And no one can know who I am… However, I would follow you onto the quest for Erebor.” He looks at his father, seriously.

Glóin protests.

“I have fought in a war. I am better prepared for this than you are.”

“But it would change the time line!”

“I know what is going to happen. You told me every detail.” His mother visibly sighs with relief when he confirms that his father will survive the quest. “I will know when to stand back and how to let everything happen. Maybe… maybe I will find out why I am here, and that I am allowed to change things, in time.” Before it is too late.

Understanding dawns in his mother’s eyes, then. “Not everyone is going to make it.”

Uh-oh.

He definitely should take up thinking before opening his mouth – the elf would certainly approve of that kind of development. Gimli looks away and answers before any of them can ask for details. “Maybe.” It is as much as a confirmation. “I have already told you too much.” His mother is too mindful, too attentive.

“That you have,” Glóin agrees, nodding. “We should talk about something else then. So… alright. You can come with me, to Erebor. But how do you plan on keeping your identity a secret?”

The time traveller looks at his parents. “Would anyone but you recognize me like this?”

His mother shakes her head. “Fíli and Kíli maybe,” she says. “They know you too well. But none of the others.”

Gimli feels the shock run through his veins.

Fíli and Kíli.

His best friends who had left for a grand adventure and never returned.

With everything that has happened in the last few hours; realizing that he has travelled through time, and fearing that he has lost the elf – he has not thought about them. How in Mahal’s name is he supposed to cope with seeing them, and knowing what is going to happen?

“We… will have to tell them,” he manages to say, somehow. His parents cannot know that the princes will fall. “But Thorin must not know! He will demand answers and I cannot deny my King.”

“… _King_ ,” Glóin repeats, slowly, the words heavy in the air. “King under the Mountain.”

Oh no. He has said too much – _again._ “Aye.” Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. Even if only for a painfully short time. “Do not tell anyone.”

“Of course not.” Glóin’s voice is filled with dreams and possibilities.

“We will let Fíli and Kíli know. They will not tell on you, I am sure. They are good boys,” his mother says. (And Gimli has to agree, they may be rascals, but they are good boys. Just like Merry and Pippin. All four of them tend to run headfirst into battles that are out of their league. The time-traveller manages not to flinch, although he could not say how.) “And we should do it soon. How about that: I bring the two of them here, Glóin organizes weapons and whatever Gimli will need for the quest and Gimli writes his letter.”

The two male dwarves only nod and the lady of the house smiles at her son and husband before she leaves the room. “I will also get you a raven,” she calls, already halfway out of the door. “Oh, and you will have to think of a new name, and a story. After all you cannot just appear out of thin air.” With that she is gone.

Gimli and Glóin share an equally amused and affectionate glance.

“She is right,” his father says, after a short moment of silence. “Tell me what you need. Axes?”

“Axes,” Gimli confirms. “A big one, like the one you are carrying. Actually… I ruined mine shortly before the war began and fought my battles with yours. We worked well together.”

Glóin’s smile is caught somewhere between proud and smug. “A fine ax she is,” he agrees. “I shall make sure you get a proper one. What else?”

“A few daggers maybe?”

Glóin nods and writes the weapons down onto a small piece of parchment. “Go on.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“I was planning on taking a good leather coat with me, but no heavy armour. We are probably going to march a lot.”

“I will take a proper armour none the less,” Gimli decides. “I have been running across Middle-Earth with the finest suit of Erebor’s forges, and it was not exactly light. It should not be a problem. Oh, and a helmet? And spare clothes and underclothes, as well as good boots and a blanket and bedroll.”

“You are the one who has to carry it,” Glóin says. “I will take care of everything. If you think of anything else, tell me. Now, what about your identity?”

“I would suggest waiting for Fíli and Kíli – I am sure they would love to throw in their creativity.”

His father chuckles. “Of course. You know where to find the supplies for your letter?”

Gimli nods (he may not have been here for eighty years, but his memory works fine enough) and then his father is gone as well. He does not take the time to sit down and think since that might give his brain the time to shut down and panic (because what if the elf is _not_ here??). Instead he makes for his old desk and looks for a sheet of parchment, and a quill. It does not take him long to decide on the words he is going to write.

 _Khathuzh,_  
 _After our last count we were at a draw. Want to finally find your master?_  
 _Meneg suilaid,_  
 _Bâhur Azaghâl_ it says in straight, sharp Angerthas runes.

He seals up the letter, with the signet of his family.

It is one of the many safety measures to ensure that the other really only understands – and will only answer – if he has shared Gimli’s fate. The elf will not be able to understand the meaning of the text (although Angerthas were invented by the elves, long ago, Mahal’s people had adapted them to their tongue) unless Gimli has already taught him the dwarvish language and script in a distant future, and _Khathuzh_ – the Khuzdul word for Elf – is a name he has always been calling Legolas. For understanding the hint at the ‘game’ they had been playing when battling having been there is as necessary as it is for knowing the meaning of the last words. His true name, which no one knows but his parents and the elf.

A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. His mother has returned, a raven on her shoulder and Kíli and Fíli following her like puppies.

“Gimli,” Kíli says, “your mother told us you wanted to-”

He falls silent when he sees Gimli stand at the desk and both brothers freeze, like statues, in the centre of the room, a letter clutched in his fingers.

 

_TBC_


	2. Marching on the edge of stories brought from far away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **2\. Marching on the edge of stories brought from far away**
> 
> _(The Lord Of The Rings: The Return of the King – Chapter 3: The Muster Of Rohan)_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah, I'm not really happy with this chapter - it keeps doing what it wants -.-
> 
> Hope you like it none the less
> 
>  
> 
> You are all wonderful people.

### 2\. Marching on the edge of stories brought from far away

The red-haired dwarf’s smile is a little pained. “Yes, I wanted to talk to you. However, please give me a second. I need to send off a letter first.” Wanting to give them (and himself as well) a little time to compose themselves he holds out his arm to the raven perched on his mother’s shoulder while looking at her with raised eyebrows. “How did you get hold of one so quickly?”

The ladydwarf shrugs. “Dáin sent him, and they forgot to reply immediately,” she answers, a sly smile on her lips.

Gimli cannot help but laugh.

The princes flinch when they hear the deep sound, so different from the much lighter laughter they are used to.

In the meantime Gimli takes his time to look at the raven, lets his fingers run over the black feathers. “You are a beauty,” he murmurs, lowly. By now he knows how to win a raven’s heart. The bird looks at him with intelligent eyes, and he smiles. “You are mightily clever, eh? That is very good, because I need a strong, courageous, smart messenger. Do you think you can bring this letter to Legolas Thranduilion of Mirkwood, and to him alone?” His voice is so low that none of the others hears what he is saying. (For while he knows that elves are able to communicate with animals, he cannot be certain that Legolas will understand a raven just the way dwarves do.)

The raven caws proudly and Gimli carries him to the door that leads to a balcony, opens it and – after the sharp claws have closed around the sealed parchment – lets the bird fly.

Then he turns around, finally giving his undivided attention to his old friends (who are so wonderfully alive, but the memory of how he had found them fallen in battle after a long journey does not leave him).

Fíli and Kíli are still speechless, staring at him with wide eyes. They do not look any different from the day they had left for this Mahal forsaken quest, and never returned.

Of course not, Gimli reminds himself, the day of their departure has not yet come!

For a short, tiny moment Gimli allows himself to be carried away by the memories. Remembers travelling to Erebor with the first caravan, eager to meet his friends, only to learn they had fallen in a glorious (he doubts that now that he knows what war is like) battle, along with their uncle. He had been devastated then, not crying for the loss of the King and his heirs, but for the loss of his best friends. (Only Legolas and Aragorn had he been that close to since, afraid that he would lose another one he held that dear.) Seeing them now, alive and well, and knowing that maybe he will not be able to save them-

It is torture.

Fortunately the future has taught him how to hide his emotions when necessary.

He buries the memories of the burials, the graves, the mournful songs, and offers them a wry smile. “I do not think I have ever seen the two of you lost for words.”

His mother chuckles and leaves them alone, closing the door on her way out.

For a few moments they stand in silence.

Kíli regains his composure first. He takes a hesitating step towards Gimli, and another one. He circles the older dwarf, who stands proud and motionless, and stops again in front of him, staring into his eyes.

“What were we really doing when you assured uncle Thorin we were out hunting and then talked Dwalin into sh-”

“Shooting a deer for me, so that my story was plausible?” He snickers. “If I recall correctly – and it has been quite some time for me – you were exchanging all of the clothing in your uncle’s cupboard for women’s clothes you had _borrowed_ from that farmer’s girl.”

Kíli beams. “It really is him, Fíli!”

The corners of the older one’s mouth are twitching. He also takes a step closer, looks into Gimli’s eyes like his brother had done. “I believe so, too. He is still there, somewhere. I can still see our young friend in his facial features. However, the eyes…” He shudders, his face serious. “What happened to you?”

The red-haired dwarf knows that the blond prince is not talking about his time travelling, but about the War of the Ring. “I have marched against armies of orcs with elves and men at my side,” he answers, slowly. No use mentioning the uruks, they would not know them anyway.

Fíli freezes when he understands. “You… have fought in a war?”

“Aye, I have. And I survived.” Unlike you will.

“What… who did you fight against? And did you win?”

Gimli hesitates. “I cannot tell you any details, but… yes. We won – and paid with many lives, of elves and men alike.” He tries not to think of Boromir’s sacrifice, offering his own life in turn for those of two innocent (as far as Merry and Pippin can be called innocent) hobbits; or of Haldir falling in order to render the retreat possible at Helm’s Deep. “It was mere months after we had succeeded, and I was on my way to Gondor with a friend in order to visit one of our… companions, until yesterday. I fell asleep somewhere on the North-South-Road and woke up here,” he explains before they can ask.

Kíli’s eyes are huge and Fíli, who can almost read his brother’s thoughts, chuckles.

“You are his new hero now,” he grins and Gimli groans.

“Will you be coming to the quest with us, now that you are old enough?” the youngest asks, almost bouncing with excitement.

“Aye,” he smiles. “But – no one can know who I really am!”

“Then why did you tell us?”

“Because you know me better than anyone else, except my parents. You would have found out.”

The blonde smiles.

“Uncle-”

“Would not recognize me. He is off and away most of the time,” Gimli reminds Kíli quietly. “And… I cannot risk him knowing. He might make me do things that I cannot do in good conscience. And he _would_ make me if he thought it was crucial for his quest.”

Fíli nods slowly, understanding. “But… how are you planning to keep your real identity a secret?”

“Well, no one of those accompanying us is going to know that my younger self has vanished. Everybody will be on their way, after all. My mother will take care of questions coming from those who remain here in the meantime. We have no idea how to explain me coming with you, though. Not yet anyway.”

Kíli huffs. “So you thought why do the work, we would come up with a story for you anyway?”

Gimli grins mockingly. “But of course.”

The dark-haired dwarf rolls his eyes, yet grins as well. “You should know better than to let us plan something like that.”

“Oh, I do. You are definitely not going to make the final plan. I merely need your creativity.” His grin is a tad dangerous now.

The corners of Fíli’s mouths are twitching once again. “You are using us!”

“What else did you expect?”

It is then that Glóin returns, when the princes have just begun to enjoy the repartee.

“I still need to organize you an armour and the axes, but I have got everything else,” he says, handing his son a huge bag and a set of razor sharp daggers. “Here. Anything you might need.”

“You are going to wear an armour?” Fíli asks disbelievingly.

Gimli nods and takes the daggers. “Aye. I have hunted some uru- … orcs over a great distance, wearing my armour and running after an elf and a man. With their speed of course. They called it ‘travelling light’, but I think I had a slightly different perception of that.” He immediately feels much better, now that he is no longer completely unarmed. Soon most of the daggers have found a place, strapped to his thighs, arms, or on his belt. His repertoire is nothing compared to Fíli’s, though.

Kíli snorts.

“You are scary,” his older brother jokes and Gimli puts on his best dark face.

“You think this is scary? You should see me in battle!”

“I cannot wait for it,” Glóin chips in.

Gimli rolls his eyes. “Do not be hasty,” he grins and thinks about peculiar tree herders. “You should not run into battle without a better reason than this.” He would. Of course. But that is different.

“Are you a dwarf or one of those weed-eaters?”

“I have seen elves fight. Believe me, crazy as they may be – you do not want them to be your enemies.” Yes. Legolas is definitely crazy. But that is fine. Gimli likes him the way he is.

“Are you ill?”

“No. I have fought alongside them. One of my… friends has great skill with the bow. He is deadly.”

“I also have great skill with the bow,” Kíli pouts.

Gimli raises his eyebrows. “You are good. He is _deadly_ ,” he repeats.

The youngest turns away, sulking.

Fíli snickers. “You are going to be very entertaining.”

The warrior’s eyebrows rise a little further. “Oh, am I?”

“Aye. Very much so. Now, let us talk about that story.”

Being with Fíli and Kíli is easy. Trying not to not to think about the fact that they are _dead_ where he comes from, and that they will die young again if he does not change anything, is _not_.

Actually, the next days are generally hard, and he spends them hiding from everyone but his family and the princes, and joking with them, as if for him no time had passed as well. (They all enjoy those games of words, those verbal exchanges, for now Gimli gives them as good as one gets, far better than so many years ago, he can take it up with the two of them at the same time, and he _enjoys_ that, but all the time he is painfully aware that he might lose them just again.) In the nights he tries to make the hours elapse by sleeping, however, he is not exactly successful, for there is a tall, slender figure hunting his dreams, the most beautiful being in Middle-Earth to his eyes, and _what if he is not here as well??_

It is three days after he has woken up in his old room, in this time that should be long gone, that his mother sneaks through the door, closing it carefully.

“Shh,” she whispers when he opens his mouth to ask and mischief is twinkling in her dark eyes. “Your father must not know!”

Gimli raises an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth are twitching.

“Why not?”

“Because I have got _questions_. And he might not like the answers.”

What he then sees in those almost black eyes of hers can only be described as curiosity, curiosity of a strength that would have Pippin pale in comparison.

“You still owe me information,” she says and her dark glance is a warning. _Don’t you dare deny me!_

Gimli, still trying to keep up his blank face, is dangerously close to laughing out loud by now. He has almost forgotten that his mother can be worse a marauder than Fíli and Kíli. Together. “What kind of information?”

“Which family does he come from?” she begins without any introduction. “What are his character traits, how does he treat you, what does he look like, what do you love him for, how did you meet him, how long have you been together, are you-”

He snorts, interrupts her. “Who are you talking about?”

She stares at him, lips puckered. “Do not try to take me for a fool.”

 _Do not take me for some conjurer of cheap tricks!_ , pops up in his mind, tales told by an aged Bilbo in Rivendell and later brought back up by Frodo, and he squashes the memory rigorously.

The snicker fighting to break free finally wins the battle, then. Alright. “Mother,” he whispers, conspiratorially. “There… is something I have to confess to you. But only if you promise not to tell father.”

“I promise,” she answers immediately, eyes gleaming. “I would not have told him anyway.”

Gimli fully laughs now, but then grows silent again. He hesitates. “… he is not of dwarvish blood.”

His mother does not even bat an eyelid. “I figured that much. Well, of which race is he then? Of men?” She sounds worried, for the short life span of men is no secret.

He winces. “…no.”

She sees him flinch and understands. “An _elf_?” Disbelief is clearly written across her face, however, she does not say anything disrespectful, just “I want to know _everything_.”

Gimli chuckles, trying to ignore his racing heart as he tries to remember all her questions. “He is of royal blood, and you really can _not_ tell father about that, for he is of Mirkwood.”

This piece of information makes her freeze for a second. “Thranduil’s kin?” she hisses, squinting her eyes.

“Aye…” he hesitates to continue, but he just cannot let her think that the elf is as bad a creature (in their eyes) as the one who has denied their people the help they would have needed so badly. “However, he is nothing like his father.”

“Thranduil’s _son_? You must be joking!”

“Be assured that I am completely serious. We fought together, and he is naught but honourable.” Gimli’s voice is dark. _No one_ will insult his elf without having to face him for it! (Only he himself is allowed to do that, and he knows Legolas will always pay him back in the same coin. And they will both enjoy it.)

A soft smile has found its way to his mother’s lips. “Aye, that he must be. Otherwise you would not stand for him like you do.” There is a deep fondness in her eyes. “Tell me about him,” she demands once more.

Gimli shifts. And smiles. Because he cannot help but smile when he thinks about his elf, even while he is terribly worried that the other one has not come here as well. “His name is Legolas Greenleaf,” he begins. “He has _very_ blond hair and the most intriguing eyes, as well as the stature and build of them weed-eaters.”

His mother huffs and the corners of his lips are twitching.

“We tried to find out who is stronger. It was a tie,” he explains, grumbling.

She laughs lightly.

“His sense of humour is very close to the one I share with you and Fíli and Kíli, and his smile is the most honest one an elf can offer.” Oh how much would he be ready to do just to be gifted one of those smiles! However, although he wishes for no one to know that, his mother obviously sees it in his eyes for she winks at him.

He actually blushes.

(Blushes! Like a dwarfling!)

_Mothers._

“We are brothers in arms,” he quickly continues, “and were mostly insulting each other in the beginning, which, when we got to know each other better, turned into teasing and a deep friendship. We still bicker a lot, but he always knows when to stop and it never is insulting any longer.” He is probably looking like a love-struck fool now. Ah, it does not matter. She is his mother. She knows anyway. “We have found that we fight very well together and not really concentrated alone, worrying all the time, although we are both warriors and know that the other can protect himself. He is strong but kind, he always knows what to say and he always manages to make me laugh. Our friendship goes so deep that I have been called _Elvellon_ by his kin. _Elf-friend_.”

What he finds in her eyes is the same look she had given him when he had had Legolas meet her, a few weeks ago, in the time that should be. A look that tells him that she will accept anyone who makes him that happy. (And that she is actually a little pleased about his decision, now that she has overcome the surprise. Because she knows that Glóin will have the shock of his life. And she is going to enjoy it. She is wicked. And her husband loves her for it.) Maybe she did wince a tiny little bit when she had heard him use Sindarin, but she had covered it up very well.

In the meantime it seems she has drawn another conclusion, one that has set sadness to the depths of her eyes. “Have you ever told him?”

“No,” Gimli answers, honestly. “I would not risk our friendship for anything.”

She gently knocks her head against his and then changes the subject. They sit and talk late into the night, enjoying the games of words and teasing they are trading. After all it is her whom he has gotten his crooked humour from.

He falls asleep easily that evening, his dreams confusing and filled with crazy wood-elves, and when he wakes the raven is waiting for him, slightly battered and visibly exhausted, but with a letter in his claws.

Gimli thinks his heart stops.

He is up within a second – startling the bird – and with a few wide steps he crosses the room until he is standing in front of the animal, carefully letting his fingers run over the ruffled feathers. “What happened to you?” he murmurs and pours a little water from the jug on his nightstand into a bowl. “Here. Drink.”

While the raven flies towards the nightstand and drinks gratefully Gimli takes the letter, and unseals the wax bearing the well-known signet. Quickly he has unrolled the parchment and his eyes are flying over the dainty elven letters (for he has been taught how to read them, just like he has taught Legolas the Angerthas runes) even as his heart is racing.

_Mellon nín,_  
 _I am ever glad to hear from you. I already feared I had come here alone._  
 _What are you planning on doing? I am sure you are aware of what is going to happen._  
 _Meneg suilaid,_  
 _Calen Iass_  
 _PS: We are only at a tie because you insist on the Mûmakil being worth nothing more than one point, which is very stingy, as I must say. I look forward to proving to you that I can beat you any day._

Gimli cannot supress the soft smile. This is so very much like Legolas.

He reads the letter again, unable to hold back a smile when his eyes rest on the elvish words _Mellon nín_. My friend. The way he is always addressed by the elf, and one of the reasons for him being called _Elvellon_. There is also the name – Calen Iass (the very bad translation of Greenleaf Gimli had once attempted to make and Legolas had adopted) – and the hint at the oliphaunt. (And anyway, that damn animal had been no more than one creature – why should it be worth more than one point? It is certainly not his fault that the elf had needed more than one arrow to get rid of it.)

Hurriedly he grabs another piece of parchment, begins to write.

_Khathuzh,_  
 _It is a relief to know that you have come with me._  
 _Yes, I am well aware of what is to happen. You should know that I have chosen to accompany them, but to let the events proceed for now. Will you meet me halfway?_  
 _You would not beat me on your best of days._  
 _Meneg suilaid,_  
 _Bâhur Azaghâl_

He seals the letter and cocks his head, looks at the tired raven.

The bird caws encouragingly.

Gimli smiles. “You really are a strong one, hmm? Can you bring him my answer?”

Another caw.

“Thank you very much. Take your time to rest before you leave.”

The raven flies towards him, rips the letter from his fingers and has left the room (through the open door) within seconds.

The dwarf chuckles; sure that the bird will rest outside, in a tree.

His mother pokes her head into the room. “Why was I just almost flown over by an over-motivated raven?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

Gimli snickers, grinning broadly. “It is on its way back, with my answer.”

She seems to be almost as excited as he is. “So he got your letter?”

“Aye.”

“And he has come through time with you?”

“Aye, he has.” He probably has that love-struck-fool-look again.

His mother smiles. “I am glad to hear that,” she says. “Did you look through your pack? You will have to leave tomorrow, are you ready?”

It is painfully clear that she does not want to stay back while her men leave. That she would do anything to come with them.

Gimli smiles and rises, leans his forehead against hers. “I did,” he confirms. “And father seems to have thought of everything, surprisingly.” She huffs. “I am sorry that you have to stay behind because of me and that this time I will not even be here to keep you company.”

She smiles as well. “It is a small prize if it is what you need.”

The love he feels for his mother almost makes his heart break. “Still. The last time I was with you. This time I will be off and away and you will be alone and have to pretend that my younger self is still here and you will be worrying for both of us… You know that I am a seasoned warrior, but you will worry none the less. And you always worry for father, despite claiming you do not.”

She actually blushes. “Aye, I do,” she says softly. “But I know that you could not stay here. Not with knowing what you know, and not with your One being an elf, who is waiting for you, out there. And if it makes you happy – it will not be much of an imposition for me.”

He hugs her tightly and she buries her head in the crook of his neck.

“You are still my Gimli,” she whispers and Gimli’s grip tightens.

“And you will always be my mother,” he answers, holding back the tears.

He hates farewells.

 

_TBC_


	3. To remember old friendship and oaths long spoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **3\. To remember old friendship and oaths long spoken**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Return of the King – Chapter 3: The Muster Of Rohan_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter features an adorable Bofur, a proud Glóin, a nosy Óin and a disgustingly love-struck Gimli – have fun.

### 3\. To remember old friendship and oaths long spoken

The night goes by far too quickly and when morning dawns Gimli and Glóin say goodbye to the ladydwarf of their family, both of them hugging her tightly and gently knocking their foreheads against hers.

Gimli is the one who leaves first, giving his parents a few moments to themselves, and he has not gone far when he hears his father’s heavy footsteps as he catches up to him. They walk in comfortable silence and the warrior thinks about Fíli and Kíli, who have left a day earlier. They had wanted to come with him, but he knows that they had reached the Shire earlier than the others the last time. They need to be there before them.

After a few hours of walking they come upon the tavern where Óin is waiting for his brother.

The healer knocks his forehead against Glóin’s, a little too hard to be comfortable, and gives Gimli a curt nod. “Who are you?”

It is the first time they have to tell ‘the story’, as the princes call it. Strictly speaking it is not even a whole story, just a piece of information. If the others do not know too much they will not ask too many questions, supposing he is just in for the gold.

“A cousin of my wife’s,” Glóin says, and as always when he thinks about her his voice is soft. “Gimin. He heard and chose to come along.”

Gimli’s face is blank and Óin just nods, shouldering his own pack and looking at them expectantly.

Glóin’s lips are twitching. “Impatient as always. Let’s get going.”

They march on, the two brothers pass the time by talking (which is exhausting, for everything needs to be said twice in order for Óin to understand it) and Gimli is content with listening. His uncle had been old when he had left for Moria together with Balin and Ori and Gimli had always known that – probably – he would never see him again. Finding Balin’s tomb had been devastating, and Ori’s book-

He does not even dare to think about it. Gandalf reading about Óin’s fate, how the Watcher in the Water had taken him, had been sad; terrifying even. However, the time traveller had always been closer to the wise advisor than to the healer, who had spent very little time with him. Both of them had been kin, _family_ ; still, Balin’s death had hurt more.

It makes his stomach churn with guilt, thinking about their passing like this now.

Back then, it had not mattered – both had been gone, and he could miss them all he liked, he was never going to see them again.

Now, however-

Gimli forcibly tears his thoughts away from the depths of Moria, and what he has seen there. It has been a better proof than anything else that his people are too greedy at times. (And it is not such big a surprise that he can see this where most others of his race cannot.)

They have reached the Hills of Evendium and are walking in parallel to the mountain range, heading south, when they run into another group of travelling dwarves.

There are three of them as well and Gimli easily recognizes the one with the hat as Bofur, and the one with an orc axe in his head as Bifur. Thus the third must be Bombur. (He can almost be called _slender_ now, compared to what he knows him to look like in the far future.)

The elder of the two brothers grins broadly, eyes twinkling. “Bofur, at yer service,” he says cheerfully and bows. “These’re me brother Bombur an’ me cousin Bifur.”

“At your service,” the other two say (Bifur in Khuzdul) and bow as well.

Gimli fights the delighted smile that wants to sneak onto his lips, for he knows Bofur very well (the company had stayed close after reclaiming Erebor, except for those who had left for Moria), the miner had looked after him rather often in that old timeline.

“Gimin, at yours,” he answers. They had chosen the name because it is fairly similar to Gimli, and thus easy to correct and most likely that he will listen to it.

He waits for his father and uncle to introduce themselves as well, before he motions for his family to move on.

Glóin complies and so does Óin.

For a second the three others stay frozen, before they hurry to catch up with them.

“Oi! Wait for us!” Bofur calls. “Where’re ye goin’ anyway?”

“The Shire,” Glóin answers crisply and Bofur’s beaming smile might have gone around his head. Twice.

“But so’re we! Let’s travel together!”

Óin rolls his eyes, but Gimli can no longer fight the smile and his father understands.

“Good idea,” he agrees. “There is safety in numbers.” And before long he has found himself in a deep discussion with Bombur. As both of them have left wives back in the Ered Luin they have no trouble to find topics of conversation.

With twitching lips Gimli listens to his father’s moony romancing over how his mother had almost had her forging hammer meet his head when he had begun courting her. However, soon he delves into a heated discussion in Khuzdul with Bifur that turns on the advantages and disadvantages of heavy and light armour. From time to time Bofur chips in (Óin seems to be sulking) and sooner than anyone has expected evening has come.

Bofur finds them a small cave at the bottom of the Emyn Uial and they set up camp, Gimli offering to take first watch. He talks them out of lighting a fire and finds a comfortable position leaning against the wall while the others lie down to sleep. Óin reminds him to wake him for second watch, then loud snoring fills the cave and the time traveller knows that he will have no problems to stay awake. Actually he is not planning to wake any of them, one night without sleep is nothing he cannot handle.

He has had so much worse.

It is probably around midnight when he hears the soft beating of wings before the raven settles on his shoulder, looking a lot better than it had the last time.

Gimli takes his time to stroke it and whispers compliments that make the bird ruffle up its feathers proudly. Only then does he take the parchment from its claws, his free hand still running over the black feathers, and unseal the letter.

_Mellon nín,_   
_I shall await you at the skinchanger’s place._   
_We should trade no further letters, it is too dangerous._   
_In your dreams you wish you could beat me!_   
_Meneg suilaid,_   
_Calen Iass_

Gimli’s smile is a little crooked when he folds the parchment and puts it into his pocket, where he also keeps the other message from the elf. He does not like the idea of no contact at all; however, he knows that Legolas is right – it is too dangerous. What if one of their messages is intercepted? And he will see the elf at Beorn’s place. Surely he will be able to hold out for that long, for it means that he will have the other at his side when they travel through Mirkwood, and he cannot risk Legolas meeting Azog. He would be too noticeable, and the orcs (and the other dwarves, really) must not know that there is more than hate between the elves and dwarves.

Gimli sighs and gives the raven some of the dried meat he has taken with him, along with some water, before he releases the animal.

“Go back to Dáin Ironfoot, will you? It is probably safest for you.”

The bird caws again, lowly, before it takes off and leaves the warrior to his thoughts and the snores of his companions.

Knowing that he will be unable to sleep anyway – especially now, after receiving the letter – he really does not wake Óin when the time for shift change would have come, which has probably been a great idea; for at some point during second watch, in the dead of night when everything is asleep, he hears the sounds he has almost been waiting for. (He is always waiting for them, after hunting and being hunted by whatever the Dark Lord Sauron had to offer for so many nights.) The orcs may be quiet enough not to wake a sleeping dwarf, but still are way too loud for a very awake warrior to miss them. (Not counting Óin – he would have been deaf to their shuffles and growling whispers. It is indeed a good thing that he has not taken over.)

For a second he considers leading them away from the camp and killing them with none of the others knowing, but it is too dangerous. What if some of the foul creatures escape his wrath and attack his sleeping companions? Also, no matter what he might _like_ to think, he is far from invincible. No, he has to take them with him – also, after all, the others are _eager_ to fight.

Sighing he wakes his father.

“There are orcs close,” he explains brusquely, whispering. “Wake the others. I will go scout, find out how many and where they are. Keep quiet.”

With that he is gone, leaving it to Glóin to wake four sleeping dwarves and inform them about the situation. And while he may not have _the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox_ , while he may breathe so loud that a bunch of elves _could shoot him in the dark_ – he definitely can keep himself hidden from some orcs.

The memory makes him quirk his lips and imagine what the elf would say, would he see him like this, trying to be as quiet as possible.

He would probably have a laughing fit.

Huffing silently Gimli finds the clearing the orcs are waiting in, obviously gearing up for an ambush. (How have they found their camp? He has made sure that there are no traces, and they have not lit a fire! And yes, he may have become quite paranoid, but he would rather call it necessary caution, thank you very much!)

He circuits them; quick, experienced eyes finding every one of the attackers, and as many weaknesses as a dwarf can see at this meagre lighting. (Which are quite a lot, considering the fact that dwarvish eyes are fitted to see the tiniest shimmer in dark caves and caverns.)

Gimli returns to the camp where the others are already waiting, weapons drawn and slightly pale, but with fire burning in their eyes.

“Thirteen,” Gimli whispers crisply. “They were planning to attack us. If we are quick we can take them by surprise. Stay out of each other’s way.” He knows that they can fight, but Bifur and Óin are the only ones who have ever fought in war and Óin is aging quickly, handicapped by his bad hearing. “Follow me.”

None of them protest.

He leads the way towards the glade where the orcs are almost ready to go and they branch out, trying to surround and trap their enemies. There is a sharp whistle (coming from Óin, for he might not hear someone else’s signal) and they all lunge at the foul creatures.

The ax Glóin has organized for Gimli – a sister to his own – sings a deadly song as the time-traveller comes upon the orcs like a nightmare, burying the bit in chests and letting it slice through limbs. He fights with the fire of a seasoned warrior burning in his veins and shows no mercy of any kind. Easily he adapts to the quirks of the ax and uses her strengths, making use of the fact that she is so similar to his father’s. Out of habit he counts how many of their foes find their death through his ax and within minutes all of them are lying on the floor, not moving any longer.

Slowly the fire leaves Gimli’s body, the iron in his flesh turning back into muscles, and now that he sees the blood and the separated limbs he feels the exhaustion come quickly. Mechanically he turns his head, looking for the elf, eager to compare their scores.

Oh no.

Maybe he _should_ sleep more.

The others are beaming at each other, boasting with the number of enemies they have killed (Gimli has counted five, which is almost half of the orcs, but there is no one whom he can bicker over it with, so he pushes it away) and he determines that they can decide what to do with the carcasses while he returns to the camp.

When he is in battle his instincts take over and the bloodlust is as strong as ever; however, before and afterwards he seems to be losing himself, to be losing the person he has once been. Maybe it is because he has seen enough battles to last him for the rest of his life, but he is still a dwarf and dwarves never give up. So he thinks that it is because he is alone, here, in this time where he should be a sixty-two-year-old, not even an adult, instead of a warrior who has seen a cruel war. Because this whole situation is tearing him down, seeing all those people whom he has known to be dead, whom he has _mourned_ , and being aware that he might lose them just again. And he needs someone, needs _him_ , after all they are a team and one without the other is not nearly as strong as they are together, physically and emotionally.

He sighs, tries to push the thoughts away.

It does not work.

His father finds him back in the cave when his clothes and beard are already clean again, the black orc blood gone, and he is sitting in the same position he had been in before he had realized the orcs’ presence.

Glóin drops a heavy hand to his shoulder.

“You fought well,” he says, pride clearly audible, and Gimli bows his head in thanks. “You took out almost half of the orcs. You were not lying when you said you were a warrior.”

The time-traveller keeps quiet, not telling him about the differences between skirmishes and battles, instead staring at the stone wall of the cave and trying not to think about the slender body that should be sitting next to his, still abuzz with the thrill of battle.

“Aye, ye did get rid of quite a lot of ‘em,” Bofur, who has just entered the cave, agrees. “And maybe I haven’t been trained properly, or Bombur, but we learned by necessity. We’re good fighters. Still ye were so much faster.” He scratches his head, clearly uncomfortable.

Gimli sighs, and looks at him. “Because I am used to it,” is all he says.

“But so’re we! We’re a wanderin’ people, an’ we’re bein’ ambushed fairly often!”

“Yet you travel without worry, or precaution. If necessary you defend yourselves, but otherwise you do not draw your weapons.”

“Why would you be any different?” Bombur asks, sitting down heavily.

“I am not from around here.” Gimli says.

“He has lived through a war,” Glóin chips in. “That is all you need to know. Leave him alone.”

“I have not heard about any war,” Óin grumbles, brows knotted.

Gimli rolls his eyes. Perfect. “I am not from around here,” he repeats.

“I believe we would have heard about a war anywhere else.”

He wants to knock his head against the wall. Or his father’s, for that matter. “Not if it is far enough.” Eighty years, to be precisely.

Óin opens his mouth again, but his brother stops him. “You do not talk about Azanulbizar, either,” he says sharply. “Leave him alone.”

The healer gives Gimli a long, considering glance, but then he nods and returns to his bedroll.

Bofur, though, does not give up just yet. “But it don’t explain how ye could be so much faster than us!”

“Used to it,” Gimli repeats, growling, and finally the miner lets it be.

“I am proud of you,” Glóin says quietly, when the others are not listening, and squeezes his shoulder. “But I wish I would not have to be.”

His son’s smile is honest. “I am a dwarf,” he reminds his father (and himself). “I am a _fighter_. I just… they cannot know, and… I miss him.”

Glóin returns the smile. “Aye. I miss her, too,” he says, winking. “But you are right. We are fighters.” With that he returns to his bedroll.

Gimli is still staring at the stone wall, but feeling a little better. His father is right. He is not the only one who is missing his beloved. Glóin and Bombur are also separated from theirs’, and they are not complaining. However, they are used to everyday life with their wives. Gimli is used to marching to war with his _friend_ , and although they are not a couple – as little as Glóin and Bombur could imagine living from day to day without their wives, as little can Gimli imagine fighting without the elf at his side.

“Why’re ye lookin’ all broody?” Bofur asks, all moustache and dimples.

Gimli coughs. “Old memories,” he grumbles. “Go back to sleep.”

“But ye already took two watches! Someone else should take the last one!”

“I can take it,” the time traveller insists, glad to have his thoughts torn away from the elf (or rather his absence) for a few moments.

Bofur stills, looking at him as seriously as Gimli has only ever once seen him look, when he had come to Erebor with his mother and had found the company three members short. “I believe ye do,” he says slowly. “I saw ye fight. None of us here can rival ye. Maybe in skills, but not in experience. I’m sure ye can look out for yerself and know how far ye can push yer body. But that doesn’t mean that ye have to. Push yerself, I mean. Not that far. Go to sleep, I’ll take the last watch.”

Gimli cannot help but smile. “Thank you,” he says honestly “but I doubt that I will be able to sleep.”

Bofur smiles back – cheerful as always, as he _should_ be – and nods. “Fine. But tomorrow ye’re goin’ to sleep, or I’ll make ye!”

The time traveller snickers. “You will need a hard stone to put me out,” he warns and the miner’s laughter fills the small cave.

“Aye, perhaps I will. I shall keep lookin’ for one,” he jokes.

Neither of them sleeps for the rest of that night. Instead they sit together, leaning against the wall and smoking. They spend most of the time in companionable silence, both lost in thought. And although the elf is still far away, on the other side of the Shire and the Misty Mountains, Gimli does no longer feel alone.

Because he knows that Legolas is here, in this time. The Legolas he knows.

It makes him feel much lighter, despite the heavy armour he is wearing.

They rouse the others at dawn and soon they are on the road again, Óin grumbling something about not enough sleep and getting old, Bombur happily munching away at a roll, Glóin staring into the distance and Bifur, Bofur and Gimli once again engaged in a heated discussion.

Well, Gimli ponders, smirking, the elf would be calling it a heated discussion. For dwarves, however, they are acting perfectly restrainedly. No fists thrown, no real insults, no weapons drawn – it is a very civilized conversation indeed. Even if they may be a little loud, yelling and shouting and swearing. 

And just _again_ his thoughts are with the elf; however, this time he has the option to really distract himself.

So he does.

And anyway, if Bofur wants to talk he will, there is no way out of it.

Gimli snickers.

They meet other travelling dwarves along the way; however, they are already following the road across the Far Downs and almost have made it to the borders of the Shire when they meet another group heading for Hobbiton.

“Dori of Ri,” the oldest introduces himself, pointedly shielding the youngest with his own body. “Those are my brothers Nori and Ori. At your service.”

All three of them bow and the others bow back, saying their own names. Gimli does not have to wait for the following conversation in order to know that the number of their group has just increased.

He watches with something rather close to gleeful amusement as Dori tries to keep Ori away from any conversation that has anything to do with either love or fighting. Ori, who he cannot look at without thinking about those bony skeleton fingers and _drums, drums in the deep_.

So he sets to distract himself once again.

Gimli thinks that the elf would probably hit him, but that it would most definitely be worth it, when he strikes up a discussion about the advantages of axes compared to swords when it comes to ridding enemies of their limbs – cutting through bone – and suppresses a sardonic laughing fit when he watches Dori get more and more desperate in his attempts to change the subject. Maybe he is being a little mean here, but young Ori is neither nauseated, nor uninterested, so he keeps going. And anyway, Dori is taking the boy to a mountain with a dragon, for Mahal’s sake!

The last settlement before they set foot in the Shire is Undertowns – it is also where they finally buy their ponies.

Óin, Glóin and Gimli agree on getting four mounts, and to use one of them as a pack pony.

The breeder – an unexpectedly open-minded hobbit – is obviously not a stranger to dwarves and sells them good animals for a good price. Gimli thinks he might be a Took. He does know the mischievous grin that makes the halfling’s eyes sparkle and lights up his face only too well. Yes, this hobbit will definitely be a relative of Pippin’s – and Bilbo’s, of course.

He hides a smile, takes his pony and the pack mount, and moves on. The others will follow, he is sure.

The closer they get to Hobbiton the closer Gimli keeps looking for a pointed grey hat. He cannot wait to see his old friend and although he knows the wizard, who is as nosy as Pippin (at least), will give him a hard time the anticipation outweighs the doubts. And, well, nobody has ever claimed that dwarves are patient creatures. At least not compared to elves. So, if the time traveller is walking a little faster, riding a little harder than necessary – who can blame him?

Still they are already way past Waymoor when he finally lays his eyes upon the ragged hat and the old staff for the first time in months. He feels his heart beat faster at the prospect of meeting the meddling old coot again. After all he had been a very dear companion during the quest for the Ring and his death in Moria had shaken them deeply. Seeing him again as Gandalf the Grey, and knowing that he will have less a burden on his mind, fills the time traveller with happiness. The wizard is standing next to a trough and talking to his horse in what probably is an elvish tongue. His old, long fingers are running through his mount’s mane and his gaze is lost somewhere, in another place or time.

When he hears them approach he interrupts his quiet dialogue (oh, how often has Gimli watched the elf talk to Arod like that!) and raises his head, gives them one of his mysterious smiles – which instantly makes Gimli nervous. Smiles like this one on the lips of the wizard _always_ do, for as good as a friend Gandalf is, he is still _meddling_ and in his presence you end up doing something you never wanted to do more often than not – and bows his head.

“Good that you are here,” he says without any further greeting or an introduction. “Help me with the ponies, will you?” He lets his eyes trail briefly over the nine dwarves and freezes when he sees the time traveller.

Bloody fucking perfect.

 

_TBC_


	4. Wizards after all are wizards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **4\. Wizards after all are wizards**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> So, this is not my favourite chapter, either.
> 
> _Again_ , Gimli kept doing what he wanted.
> 
> Sorry for that.

### 4\. Wizards after all are wizards

Gimli rolls his eyes.

Blasted magic-wielding bugger! Seriously. Does he always have to see and know more than everyone else?

A dark smile on his lips he takes a step forward and reaches for the reins of one of the three ponies the wizard has pointed at.

“Gimin. At your service.”

Maybe his voice is a little too dry, and maybe his eyes are a little too challenging, but Gandalf will come question him anyway, so he does not mind if he is making the wizard suspicious. He is way too occupied with keeping all those things he wants to say to his old friend and fellow – brother in arms – back to care for anything else. ( _Fly, you fools!_ )

So, instead of continuing to watch the wizard, he leads the pony over to his uncle (his father has taken their own fourth mount) and grabs the reins of a second one, watches as Bofur marches towards the third.

“I am ready. Can we get going?”

“Wait a second – who is he again?” Dori interrupts his attempt to tear his thoughts away from the depths of Moria, and Gandalf’s from his own person.

Glóin rolls his eyes. “The wizard Thorin Oakenshield found us,” he grumbles.

“You mean: The wizard who found Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf’s eyebrows have vanished somewhere underneath the brim of his hat, but he mounts his horse without saying another word, watching as the dwarves follow his example. He then runs his stallion and follows the road to Hobbiton without looking back again to check on them.

Shaking his head amusedly Gimli follows him, the wizard’s pony’s reins attached to his saddle. He may not be making a fool of himself, trying to ride, like he had with the horsemen, yet there is no way he is going to lead one pony in either hand. One does not have to tempt fate. He gives the second animal a wary side glance, wondering why he has never had many problems with riding ponies, while the Rohirrim’s horse had made his life so hard. Probably the elf had bribed Arod into it, he thinks, grinning lopsidedly. He would certainly have the skills to do so.

His thoughts once again with Legolas Gimli leads the procession of nine dwarves, running after a wizard. It is a good thing the hobbits’ whispers and glares do not bother him; however, he can tell that not all of the others are as calm about it. Ori is obviously feeling very uncomfortable and Óin’s angry muttering is clearly audible.

He huffs.

And forces himself to think about halflings saving the world and kings denying their heritage and wizards meddling with everything and everyone, for he cannot be thinking about Mirkwood elves wielding a bow of the Galadhrim all the time.

And maybe he is looking at Gandalf a tad too often – for the last time he has seen him in grey robes and with the hat he had been falling into fire and darkness – and maybe his thoughts are a little too dark, so dark that the wizard cannot miss his mood, and maybe his attitude is a little too different from the other dwarves’.

However, they do not linger, do not take the time to ask questions, for dusk is approaching quickly and they need to make it to the burglar’s house before nightfall. At least if they want to get there in time for the feast.

Gimli’s lips are twitching.

_Dwarves_ , he thinks, _dwarves and hobbits are not all that unalike._ He pushes away the mental image that follows (a hobbit with a letter opener of a weapon, and a regal dwarf with suddenly more than one dream worth living for, sitting next to each other, watching longingly, yet neither speaking up) and sighs.

He shakes his head then – he will not meddle, that is Gandalf’s job – and keeps riding, his body moving along with the pony’s automatically.

Thinking about dwarves giving their love to someone of another race also inevitably evokes a certain train of thoughts, one he does not want to deal with yet _again_.

He clenches his fists, finding his grip around the reins iron hard and white-knuckled. It takes all his self-control to loosen it and force his mind onto something else.

They ride in silence and finding distraction is not easy, yet Gimli keeps going, for he knows that later this evening he will be enjoying a great feast, and the hospitality of a hobbit, and the fainting of said hobbit, and an evening filled with so much nostalgia that – maybe – the elf will stay away from his thoughts. They will be occupied with Fíli, Kíli and Thorin, most likely.

And he will get to meet young Bilbo Baggins, the gentlehobbit who has given Durin’s folk their home back, and he will make it through the evening, and the night, and the following days, until they reach Beorn’s house. And then everything will be better. (He wonders _how_ he is supposed to make it that far, if he is so worn out already. However, he figures, there will be fights and hard-ships as soon as they begin to travel, and maybe it will be enough to occupy his thoughts.)

He realizes, then, that – in a twisted way – he is actually craving battle, for as lost as he may be without the elf – there is nothing to take your mind off things like a nice challenging blood-shedding, and when he is alone with his ax, the enemy and death there is nothing to doubt. Weary he may be, war he might hate – yet a warrior he is with his heart and soul, and in battle everything falls into place again. (He may be going crazy already. _Or_ this might be the dwarvish blood breaking through again, now that the elven influence is missing. _Or_ it is being called a war hero for a reason. But, no – crazy is most likely.)

They finally reach Hobbiton and Gandalf leads them to Bag End, all the while grinning merrily.

Rolling his eyes fondly Gimli racks up the two ponies and follows the others towards the door, watching as Bofur rings the bell.

They hear the complaints even before the door has opened and afterwards they are a little distracted. After all Bombur, of all dwarves, is lying on top of them. As soon as he can breathe again Gimli sets to the task of freeing himself. He actually manages to get out of the pile of dwarves, decides against helping his father do the same, and then enjoys the struggle of the others.

Really. It is decidedly amusing.

He is interrupted, however, when Fíli and Kíli come along, huge grins splitting their faces.

“You are finally here!”

“What took you so long?”

Gimli rolls his eyes. “You left earlier?”

“Well, maybe. But-”

“Two days earlier, to be exact. And we arrived only minutes after you. What took _you_ so long?”

“You know them?” Óin chips in, ear trumpet turned into their direction. “How can you know them if you are from who-knows-where?”

“We met in the Ered Luin, before they left.”

“And made fast friends,” Kíli beams.

Gimli grins at the brothers and ignores his uncle. Seriously. He is annoying.

Soon they are occupied with preparing dinner and, filled with curiosity, amusement and quite a lot of fond memories, watching the hobbit freak out. It is easy for Gimli to imagine Sam being the one running around, trying to stop the natural force a dozen dwarves can be. Yes, it would definitely be Sam, he had been the most respectable hobbit. Frodo would be enjoying Gandalf’s presence way too much (and he had been under Bilbo’s influence for too long), and Merry and Pippin? They would already be plotting stupid pranks together with Fíli and Kíli.

Thinking about his young halfling friends, and what they will have to endure, turns his thoughts back to his time-travel, and the reason for it. There is nothing he wants to do more than change the course of history – he would even agree to spend the rest of his life without the elf, if only to save so many people so much pain.

He forcefully tears his thoughts away from what the war – and the Ring – will do to his fellows, his friends, and tries to concentrate on the task at hand.

Namely: Prepare the feast.

And make Bilbo freak out.

Which is almost too amusing. He knows what will become of the hobbit – a true adventurer and a hobbit more courageous and devoted than many a dwarf or elf – but right now he is being ridiculous. (Maybe Gimli can understand him. But just maybe. And just a little bit. And anyway, this _is_ rather entertaining.)

He helps carry the table, and empty the pantry, and set up the plates, the corners of his mouth twitching all the while. For the first time in ages it is easy to banish the elf to the back of his mind. Yes, probably what he really needs is simply a good and proper distraction – which does not necessarily have to be a nice cruel battle. (After all, then he may have to concentrate, yet he still spends way too much time looking for a swirl of blond hair out of habit.)

Soon they are eating, scandalizing the hobbit (way to go, Gandalf – a dwarven party is the perfect way to convince a worryingly polite and _respectable_ Shireling of leaving his hole) and having a wonderful time. Gimli has to admit, Bilbo Baggins’ taste for food is indeed nothing to sneeze at.

He also enjoys the singing and ‘cleaning up’ that follows, spending his time with throwing particularly difficult tosses at his two royal friends. All of them are having a great time, it feels as if it has been ages since he has been so free.

However, the mood dampens immediately when the King turns up.

Thorin, being his usual broody self (Gimli had never known him any different, although he had certainly idealized him after his death), is all grunting and talking about serious stuff. Way too gravely. (And majestically, of course.) Gimli supresses a sigh and tries his best not to think about a beautifully ornate sarcophagus, mournful songs resounding in wide halls and a kingly burial. This Thorin, sitting before him… is not King under the Mountain, the warrior the dwarves of Erebor had never stopped singing about. Yet he is also no longer his uncle (of course their relation is more complicated than that, but no one had ever cared – not before the signs had turned up), no longer the uncle of his best friends. The royal blood is boiling in his veins, and with every mile they come closer to the Lonely Mountain, to his lost kingdom, it will be stronger.

Gimli cannot help but wonder what Fíli and Kíli will say when they lose their family member bit by bit.

He tries to concentrate on Thorin’s words instead. On the hobbit’s curious glances at the map. The map that excites everyone but him – and Gandalf. And the wizard is _staring_. Again. Oh, he cannot wait for that conversation!

Just perfect.

Distantly he wonders when he has become so sarcastic. (The question is easily answered. Like so much in his life it has to do with a certain elf.)

Dori asks Gandalf for a number – How many dragons have you killed? – and the others begin to quarrel, until Thorin silences them, gives them a speech. The royal blood is breaking through yet again. Thorin Oakenshield has been born a charismatic person, and the rhetorical education he, grandson of the King, has had is showing. It was Balin’s, after all.

Fíli and Kíli are staring at their uncle with wide, admiring eyes, absorbing every glance, every kingly gesture.

Do they not see what they will be losing?

The time-traveller wishes he could be exchanging looks with the princes, but they are concentrating on the king, hanging on his every word, only too excited to reclaim _their_ kingdom and eager to prove themselves.

Gimli shakes his head.

Did he also behave like that?

(Of course he did, still he chooses to ignore it.)

He watches the others fight yet again and Gandalf grow all dark and tall and scary. The time traveller cannot keep his thoughts from wandering, conjuring up memories of a different time. _I would die before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf! No one trusts an elf!_

The halfling fainting brings him back into the present time.

Really.

Those Shirelings are decidedly amusing creatures.

While Gandalf looks after Bilbo he forces his thoughts to stay away from two battered, unconscious hobbits, motionless in the claws of huge eagles, and a sluggishly bleeding finger. Instead he watches the others. Thorin, who is still talking. Ori, who seems to be growing in confidence with every sentence, and Dwalin, who cannot wait to fight for his home. Bofur, who actually manages to keep quiet (which is a small miracle) for the time being, Bombur, who is still eating, and Bifur, whose fingers are twitching. There is a fire burning in Nori’s eyes as he thinks of all the gold, the vast treasure, and Dori’s are swaying to and fro, uncertain whether to watch his leader or his youngest brother. Óin is listening intently, his own father is excited, and Balin seems to be tired, despite his constant little smile. Fíli and Kíli are filled with anticipation.

In the end Bilbo, who Gandalf has brought back into consciousness, says that he cannot come with them and the others seem to falter. For all they are doubting the hobbit’s abilities, they still need a burglar and if the wizard says he can do it…

… the wizard.

Gimli has almost forgotten about the talk. And when he remembers it is already too late, for Gandalf has managed to corner him in an empty chamber. He hears the others sing in the sitting room and grits his teeth, knowing that there is no escape.

Great.

Gandalf closes the door of the guest-bedroom and tries to stare the dwarf down.

Frustrated, Gimli has to admit that – no matter how often he may have been in that position already – it is still working.

The wizard raises an eyebrow, obviously waiting for him to say something, and Gimli leans back, against a wall, stubbornly crossing his arms as he lets his expression flow into a blank mask. If the wizard wants to do it his way, then there is no chance the time-traveller is going to make it any easier for him. Gandalf will find out more than he should anyway, he might as well have a hard time doing it. (The dwarf realizes that he may have to write another letter to the elf after that conversation, despite their agreement not to. Oh bother.)

Gandalf’s eyebrows are twitching now, and his eyes are dark. Threatening.

The burning eye of Sauron had been worse.

This time Gimli manages to hold his gaze and in the end it is the wizard who gives in. The old man sighs, unnerved, yet a little impressed at the same time.

“There are not many who do not look away the first time I try to stare them down,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Unless… this is not the first time. Although I cannot remember ever having met you, you do seem oddly familiar to me.”

Gimli rolls his eyes. “How many blasted senses do you Istari have?”

“More than you mortals, I assume,” Gandalf answers, his eyebrows having vanished somewhere beneath the brim of his hat.

The dwarf thinks about the Lord of Rivendell and finds himself unable to suppress a huff.

This time the wizard is the one to roll his eyes. “I am rather sure that you already know what I was about to ask, so would you just tell me?”

Gimli grins. “Definitely not! Where would be the fun in that?”

Gandalf sighs again. Scrutinizes him. “There is an odd magic about you. One I cannot quite identify,” he finally says.

“Oh no. I was actually hoping you could tell me the reason for this…”

“The reason for what?”

“I am convinced you already have an idea, whether you tell me or not.”

Gandalf’s eyelids are twitching. “You think so?”

“You always do.”

“You seem to know me rather well.”

“Maybe.” Gimli has to admit, this _is_ rather amusing. Gandalf will find out _some things_ either way, thus there is no reason not to have a little bit of fun.

Gandalf shakes his head. “I would have you tell me whether you come from the past of from the future, and whether you have come alone.”

Gimli feels his face run blank. “I will only tell you if you swear to me not to take any information I do not give you freely by force.”

“Why would I do that?” The wizard sounds hurt.

“Because you cannot help but meddle, and if you think what I know will help you save the world or whatever it is you are usually doing… there will not be much that can stop you. Also, while you would certainly try to do the right thing, you still might choose wrongly – and your mistakes weigh more heavily than others’ I assume.”

Gandalf drops his shoulders. “I suppose you are right,” he admits, quietly, sounding old and defeated. “Hereby I swear not to take anything you are not willing to give from you,…”

“Gimli, son of Glóin.”

For a second the wizard is surprised, but regains his composure quickly. “… Gimli, son of Glóin, be it items or information.”

The time traveller can feel the magic behind the oath manifest in the form of a draught and nods, satisfied. “Great. As you have – apparently – already guessed, I have come from the future, almost eighty years from now. I have met you there during… a _quest_.” Gandalf squints his eyes; however, Gimli does not give him enough time to ask. “Quite obviously I have been sent back into a time where I already exist, but with my old body, while my younger self has vanished. This, to my knowledge, has never happened before. Unfortunately I cannot tell you anything about what has brought me here, since I do not know, but – as you yourself have told me once – there are no longer any elves in Middle-Earth powerful enough to send a being back in time, and not even Saruman could do it. Thus I assume this is some godly plan… whether it is a prank or the attempt to right some wrongs I cannot say.”

The wizard frowns. “… to right some wrongs,” he says, slowly. “What wrongs?”

“There is no way I am going to tell you that. Not at this point, anyway. However… I was hoping you could tell me the reason for my time-travel. Whether I am here to watch… or to change the course of history.”

Gandalf sighs. “I am afraid I cannot tell you that, my lad. Not yet.”

_Lad_. Gimli squints his eyes, but answers anyway. “Of course. Perhaps you could ask the Lady Galadriel?”

The old man gives him a surprised look and the corners of Gimli’s mouth are twitching. Maybe, after this is over… maybe he can get his three strands of golden hair back, which he has left in that time he has been torn from. He has always thought of them as a good-luck charm, and of a keepsake. After all it was in Lórien that he and Legolas finally grew closer.

“If I find the time to do so. However, until then you must not-”

“-change anything, I know.” The dwarf rolls his eyes. “I figured that much.”

Gandalf nods, slowly. “Fine.” He cocks his head, stares at the wall. Looks at Gimli. Looks away, stares him down again. “Did you… come here alone?”

“That I do not know,” the younger one lies without batting an eyelid. There is no way he will have the elf dragged into this.

“Well. Then I guess there is nothing more to talk about. I assume you know enough about what is going to happen to keep out when it is necessary?”

“I do.”

Gandalf nods again. “We are done here, then. I shall tell you if I gain any information about your situation. For now – you should sleep.”

Gimli only nods and rises, leaves the guest room and his old friend behind. He makes for the living room, where he finds Fíli and Kíli curled up in front of the fire place. Deciding that he can at least try to get some rest he signs his own contract, hands it to Balin, and then lies down next to the princes, axes as always ready to be drawn. He knows that, should it be necessary, he will defend the princes and his King with his life. If he is allowed to so. He only needs to make sure that the elf survives and takes care of the Ring, or rather the destruction of it. The elf could do it, even with him gone, he is sure.

Yes, Gimli feels confident about that. He is less afraid of death than of being condemned to watch, and do nothing. Although… waiting in the halls, for the elf to join him in afterlife, knowing that he could not be a part of Legolas’ days-

Unsurprisingly, sleep eludes him that night yet again.

 

_TBC_


	5. Far-off memories of a journey long before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **5\. Far-off memories of a journey long before**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 4: A Journey in the Dark_
> 
>  
> 
> \---  
>  
> 
> Some battle-silliness here... getting distracted. Tzz. Stupid lovesick dwarf.

### 5\. Far-off memories of a journey long before

When the others rise, early the next morning, Gimli has already prepared the ponies and breakfast. Quietly – as not to wake their host – they eat, clean up the mess they have made in the hobbit hole, and leave.

Gimli does not fail to notice the sparkle in Gandalf’s eyes when he darts the contract on the table a quick glance.

Oh, the old meddler! Bloody wizard!

Gimli is not entirely convinced that the Istari is _not_ involved in _everything_ that might seem like a coincidence on first sight. Not when it is related to Thorin Oakenshield’s quest for his home mountain. (Or a certain hobbit’s quest for Mount Doom.)

Before long they have left the Shire and are following the East-West-Road, towards the Misty Mountains.

After the first few minutes of riding quietly, glumly even (except for Bofur), the betting begins.

_Of course_ , Gimli thinks, grinning, and puts his money on the hobbit turning up. He can take a little advantage of knowing what is going to happen, at least in that situation. Watching him from the corners of their eyes Fíli, Kíli and Glóin follow his example. Gandalf has already done the same, as always sure that his ideas will work. Óin cocks his head and then shrugs, nodding. He is always one to take the odds.

“I say he comes,” he announces.

All the others choose to bet on the opposite (even Thorin is in it) and Gimli is already rubbing his hands. Mentally, of course. Six to eight – not much, but as some of the others have anted up larger sums it will be more than good enough.

Thus he finds himself unable to suppress the smug grin when Bilbo comes running, the contract in his hand and a pack on his back, yelling for them to wait.

Balin makes sure that the signature is correct and then the money comes flying.

Gimli shares an amused look with his two princeling friends and for the rest of the day the mood is much better.

When he offers to take first watch, however, he meets with unexpected resistance.

“I was bein’ completely serious when I said I’d make ye sleep,” Bofur warns. “I won’t watch ye exhaust yerself. We’re in this as much as ye’re, and there’s no way ye’ll be carryin’ more of a burden than the rest of us.”

Gimli hearts swells with his love for this one dwarf he had considered his uncle as much as Balin, or Óin.

Thorin raises an eyebrow, nodding, but does not say anything. Instead he keeps staring into the darkness and looking out for whatever threat may linger in the shadows. He may be in a dark mood more often than not, but he surely cares for every person under his care. When they hear the first orc cry (of course Gimli is not sleeping, he is far too occupied with watching his companions and all their quirks) he flinches visibly, although apart from Balin and Gimli no one seems to notice.

Balin.

The name alone makes the time traveller shudder. Seeing him again, old but still strong and so wonderfully _alive _– it is as upsetting as watching Fíli and Kíli with knowing their fate. His blood still runs cold when he thinks about those dark nights underneath the Misty Mountains, about being caught in the mines that had taken the lives of so many dwarves. About wandering through those beautiful dwarven halls, halls his kin had paid for with blood so often already, knowing that it was a _tomb_ he was sleeping in, as Boromir had so kindly pointed out.__

The grave of people he might have known, once, in what had seemed like a bygone time. 

He should have felt at home there, in those halls built to be a home for his people. Boromir, however, had spoken those not exactly kind words it in the very beginning and they had never left his head. 

A tomb. 

And one they had been trapped in. 

Surprisingly it had been the elf who had been trying to calm him, instead of the other way round. The Firstborn are not made to dwell underground, they grow restless and nervous after only very little time. Still Legolas had taken it upon himself to look after Gimli, being the only one who had noticed the way the dwarf had reacted to the mines – the way he had almost physically _felt_ the death lingering inside those walls. Despite that, though, despite everything Gimli had kept hoping, praying, that he would find Balin alive, strong, still fighting- 

Standing in front of his sarcophagus… He had almost been relieved when Pippin, in all his Tookish glory, had managed to alert the enemy to their presence. The need to fight had torn him from the paralysing numbness the unexpected death of his dear uncle had caused. 

With all his might Gimli pushes that feeling he remembers only too well (he had had to deal with it again after Gandalf had fallen prey to the greediness of his own kin, and after they had lost Boromir to the man’s own conscience) away when he hears Thorin reprimand his sistersons. He watches as their leader stomps off and listens to Balin telling them the reason for his overreaction. 

It strikes Gimli as odd that not even Fíli and Kíli know what had really happened at Azanulbizar, though he does remember that he had not known as well. His uncle had finally told him after they had returned to Erebor. Mourning their fallen king many a song had sounded in the Lonely Mountain’s halls and he had not understood everything they had sung about. 

Back then, he had finally been told the details. 

Of course he had known everything about Thorin’s exceptional courage and the Oakenshield; however, everything else no one had ever talked about – the countless fallen soldiers, or those whose lives had been ruined. The fact that Frerin, Thorin’s brother, had been among those lost before Moria’s gates, as well as Fundin, the father of Balin and Dwalin. Along with Náin; and Thráin, who had disappeared and was not heard of again. 

Balin’s tale that evening may be a little embellished, but it is still much more accurate than anything Gimli would have been told at that age. However, there are still parts missing. 

Still nothing is said about Frerin, or Fundin, or the fact that the corpses were burned afterwards instead of being entombed in sarcophagi worthy of a death in battle, underneath a homely mountain. Gimli does not even dare to think about what it must mean to lose your father and not even be able to grant him a proper burial. 

Shaking his head he tries to think about something else. 

He is not sure whether he should be surprised or annoyed that Balin has skipped the cruellest parts… they should not know, of course, Fíli, Kíli and Ori are still so innocent, so young. And yet, they are on a quest that will cost two of those three their lives. 

They should be ready. 

Still, none of them even fear that the end could be that disastrous, except for Balin and Gandalf maybe. Closing his eyes he repeats what Thorin has said. 

_Perhaps the vast worth of our people now lies unprotected._

That is what they all hope for. What they all _expect_. After all, the portents say that the reign of the beast will end, now that the birds of old have been seen returning to the mountain. They believe that they will simply waltz in and take the Arkenstone out from under an already dead dragon’s claws. 

They also believe that everyone else in Middle-Earth will let them take what is rightfully theirs. 

Well. Probably Dwalin does not think that either, and Óin. Balin. Thorin. The others, however, are fully unaware of what might be awaiting them. And Gimli thinks that it would be Thorin’s responsibility to warn every single member of this company – with more than the stilted words of a too-long contract no one but a scholar or a fussy hobbit will read fully. 

Tiredly he thinks about _There is one I could call king!_ and finds himself unable to suppress a shudder. Gimli Glóin’s son is nothing if not loyal, also – or rather especially – to Thorin Oakenshield, and his quest. He has travelled through time, and still is ready to die for Erebor. 

At the latest from Balin’s speech on the others have pledged their hearts and allegiance to him as well. 

Looking around the warrior sees the impact Balin’s words have had on his companions. They all seem to be looking at their leader with endless admiration in their eyes – all but Balin and Dwalin, who have always been loyal beyond all bounds to the one they would follow into any battle, just like he would follow Aragorn (or the elf). 

Gimli only wishes Thorin were not so convinced that Azog is gone. That he were aware that they are already being hunted. That he were worrying not only about the dragon, but also about their path there. 

And that the others could see that Durin’s heir is not invincible. 

Sleep – predictably – eludes him for the rest of that night as well and he very much regrets that when the next days are drowned in a constant downpour. Getting a proper night’s sleep is close to impossible with the ground swimming, even for a group of travellers who are used to spending day and night in the open. He almost wishes he were back on the way towards Isengard, trying to outrun a group of uruks. There had not been any time for sleeping, he had been caught between exhaustion and hopelessness, but at least it had been _dry_. 

Suddenly Gimli feels so very old, thinking about the War of the Ring, and all the hardships that had come with it. He feels old and worn and tired. Like he has already seen too much, and watching his friends die before his very eyes, knowing in advance and being unable to prevent it, is going to break him. 

Oh, what would he give for the elf to be here to chase away those dark thoughts! 

Wearily he listens to conversations about great and not so great wizards and tries to let himself be distracted, but most of the time his thoughts are trapped in another thunderstorm; in another soaking wet armour and a battle for the survival of Rohan. 

Suddenly, though, the sky clears up again and when they stop to spend the night in a gutted farmhouse he knows a distraction has come, and more will be following quickly. 

With raised eyebrows he watches as Gandalf stomps off, the corners of his mouth twitching. The man does have a bad temper, but having to interact with stubborn elves, eccentric wizards, stupid men and now even thick-headed dwarfs regularly cannot leave one patient, can it? Grinning he waits for the night, knowing that the wizard will be back in time to help them. 

And that the distraction will be there before he loses himself in those dark memories that are haunting him yet again. 

He does not understand why his past hardships suddenly hit him so much harder than they had before. Maybe it is because the elf is not here. Maybe it is because he is surrounded by people he knows are going to die. And maybe… it is because what has worn him out has not even happened yet, and he will probably have to let it happen despite his better knowledge. 

He had not thought himself to be that dependent on the Legolas’ presence (and friendship, and appreciation, and _lov-_ ), but he guesses that this is what it means that the elf is his One. Gimli can count himself lucky that his other half has even travelled through time with him. 

Well. 

Maybe his love is the reason for Legolas having been pulled along. Maybe their bond – one of friendship as it may be – is _that_ strong. 

Gimli likes the idea. 

Probably the distraction already waiting to happen really is even more necessary than welcome. 

The encounter with the trolls actually turns out to be quite amusing for Gimli, with knowing how everything will end. As soon as Bilbo has left with Fíli and Kíli’s servings of Bombur’s stew he has his ax ready, waiting for his two princely friends to return – and confess that they have lost some of the ponies. Along with their burglar. To mountain trolls. It is ridiculous, really. Well, at least for the time traveller who avoids the brothers’ gaze when they come sneaking towards the old farmhouse, their eyes pleading him to understand and help them. They – obviously – have drawn the (right) conclusion that Gimli must know what has happened. To their horror, however, the time traveller decides against helping them out of this situation. After all, where would the fun be in that? 

Very amused he listens as they admit what has happened to their uncle, who looks torn between scolding them and running to help Bilbo. Kíli, though, does not wait for him to make a decision, which could – at this point – easily be the wrong one. He turns on his heels and runs back the way he and his brother have just come. The prince seems to be the only one realizing that they have left a hobbit – and one whose abilities all of them doubt at that – to the mercy of three monstrous mountain trolls. 

In the end it is Gimli who shakes his head, mutters some well-chosen (and not meant for others’ ears) words into his beard and stomps after Kíli. His ax at the ready he darts Thorin a challenging glance, which he might as well regret later, and makes for the direction the prince has taken. Not wanting to stay behind their leader stomps after him, and everybody else follows them. Gimli, who hears their loud footsteps in his wake – he allows himself to think about what Haldir’s reaction would be – snickers as he rushes after his young friend. 

The others have closed the lines when they reach the clearing, just in time to watch the trolls throw Bilbo towards where Kíli is standing and both tumble towards the ground. 

Seeing this Thorin suddenly is the first one to charge. 

With an old dwarven war cry on his lips he rushes into the clearing, sword drawn, and immediately starts to divert the trolls’ attention away from his currently helpless sisterson, burying the blade in the nearest leg with a strength that only a dwarf who is used to fighting for his life can muster. 

“ Khazad aî-menu,” Gimli roars in memory of countless battles for Middle-Earth and charges as well, knowing that ultimately he will have to hold back and let everything happen the way it is supposed to. However, it is simply not an option to let Thorin realize that he is not about to make a change. He just cannot meddle with time before he knows whether he is allowed to, and his king would make him. He has fought in a cruel war, trying to save the world – he will not sacrifice it by making a mistake that might destroy everything existing. Besides, one dwarf more or less means not much to three trolls, not if said dwarf has to watch out for his companions as much as for his enemies. 

The group is unorganized still, impeding each other more than helping. 

Thus Gimli busies himself with trying to shield Ori as well as he manages to in this situation, and giving Bilbo the chance to make his ways towards the ponies, and observing his companions. 

It is what gives him the chance to see the formerly lose group suddenly grow together, just like that. Before… there had been the close families sticking together, brothers and cousins. They were there for each other, but not for anyone else. Now, however – it is all for each and each for all. Incidentally trying to shield Ori a little from the trolls’ wrath Gimli admires the way those dwarves who mean so much to him – they are his heroes and his family – are fighting hand in hand now, having changed their attitudes within seconds. 

Distractedly the time traveller defends himself, avoiding a troll foot here and a huge squashing hand there. He concentrates on cataloguing each of his companions’ fighting styles and filing them away, wanting to know who he can rely on in which situation. Clearly does he remember the way his own company, the Fellowship, had grown together until they knew each other blindly, and were able to fight in any constellation. He can see it already, it will not be long until this company will have knitted their lives, fates and skills together as tightly as his own had. 

Gimli absently realizes – he is busy thrusting his ax into a calf, and evading the answering kick – that somewhere, deep down, there is a strange pain that comes upon him when he thinks of not really belonging to this group. Of course he is not truly alone, after all his father is here, and his princeling friends never let him forget their presence... and still, he suddenly feels so very out of place. He should not be here, has no place among those dwarves… has no place in this time. Swiftly as always his thoughts return to the elf, and the ache in his heart increases. He tries to imagine what Legolas will be doing at the moment, whether he has told anyone, whether he is feeling alone as well- 

Suddenly there is a poorly made knife pointing at his face, and the world comes rushing back. 

Instantly he kicks into survival mode again, nimbler than anyone would expect of a dwarf dodging the blow and drawing one of the daggers his father has given to him in order to bury it up to the hilt in thick skin and fat and muscle, at hip height. The troll howls with pain. 

Gimli, in the meantime, is _fuming_. 

There is no way he can allow anything, especially not silly thoughts about the elf and the Fellowship, to distract him from a fight just like that; and the burning anger with himself, and Mahal, and _fate_ is enough to keep him focused. 

Because having his attention diverted like before is simply not an option. 

At the moment, however, he is occupied with raging. 

Unfortunately he has to realize that pulling the dagger out of the troll’s leg is not as easy as he had expected. For a few moments the time traveller makes a fool of himself chasing after a hilt sticking in thick skin and fat. He hears Fíli snicker in the background. A bold jump makes it possible for him to wrap the fingers of his free hand around the cool metal, but now he is dangling from a troll’s hip, desperately clinging to his weapon. 

Fíli is no longer the only one snickering. 

Angrily he manages to put his ax away, securing it in the sheath on his back. Wrapping both hands around the restive hilt he now stems his sturdy feet against the thick thigh beneath them; a manoeuvre that reminds him dangerously of the elf killing that oliphaunt, but much less elegant. 

He pulls again, pushing his body away with all the strength in his feet and with a sickly slurping sound the dagger suddenly becomes unfastened and Gimli drops to the ground. 

Glóin is laughing aloud now. 

It is a good thing, the warrior thinks, that his beard is so thick that the blush creeping up his cheeks is nearly undetectable. He bobs up, draws his ax again and immediately charges, having put the bloody dagger back into its sheath at his belt. 

For the first time since he has woken up in this _wrong_ time he is glad that the elf is not here. He would never hear the end of it. 

Roaring he draws the bit of his ax through another leg, watching as the sharp blade cuts through the tissue easily. This is definitely a better position, so he does it again. And again, and again. At the same time he lets his attention slip once more – on purpose, this time, for he is still trying to absorb the others’ fighting styles in order to adapt his own. 

Smiling absent-mindedly he registers Ori aiming at a troll who has lifted Nori, and sees Dwalin roll after a blow, only to stay on the floor and offer Glóin the chance to jump higher than he could have alone. He also sees the way his father does not hesitate to do so. 

Yes, the others are working with each other now, instead of next to each other. There is nothing like a nice battle to knit a scratch group together, aye? The company is doing so, and impressively well at that. Gimli watches how the war veterans easily include those who are not used to fighting together, working them into the dynamics and embedding them in the structure. Gimli is having a hard time trying to withstand the pull. Oh, he would love to be a part! However, he cannot tune in yet, he has to keep track of everything happening around him, or he might do something that could ruin _everything_. 

Suddenly there is a hobbit dangling from huge troll hands and Thorin is the first to throw away his sword in order to save a tiny halfling’s life. Somehow, Gimli is proud at that, and he thinks that he, and the elf, and Gandalf, and Aragorn, and Boromir – that they would have done the same for _their_ hobbits. 

_TBC_


	6. We train and we teach, we walk and we weed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **6\. We train and we teach, we walk and we weed**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers – Chapter 3: The Uruk-Hai_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> So, I can't watch Bilbo wave his little sword about with no instructions whatsoever, while all those dwarves - half of whom have had proper training - watch and do nothing.
> 
> Neither can Gimli.

### 6\. We train and we teach, we walk and we weed

Soon he is distracted, though (and it is scary how much he is dwelling on the past now, he never used to do that; however, with all those parallels…), by being relieved of his armour, and the daggers at his belt, and his pack, being put into a mahaldamn _sack_ instead. It itches, and he feels naked, vulnerable. Desperately he wishes he could move his hands, if only to scratch his toe where the itch is throwing a party. However, there is no way for him to reach his foot. Still, he supposes he is in a better position than some of the others. To be precise: Those who are bound to a stick, being turned above the hot flames of the cooking fire; and all of them are afraid that they are actually going to be eaten.

That this is it.

That their journey, their dreams, their _lives_ end here.

Yes, Gimli has to admit, a little itching is nothing compared to fear of dying. At least he knows that a small, quick-witted hobbit and a blasted meddling wizard will throw their abilities together just in time to save the day. And, well, somehow the time traveller even enjoys the situation. Apart from the itching, of course. After all, who ever gets the chance to see the so majestic dwarven king in such an unmajestic manner?

Suppressing a snicker Gimli observes as Bilbo sets to distract the trolls. Apart from Thorin none of his companions realize what he is doing – stalling – and the time-traveller knows only too well, before he had gone on his own quest he would have been one of those protesting the loudest.

Smiling he watches Gandalf blow up the stone behind which the sun is rising; turning the trolls into the stone statues Sam had mentioned so often when talking to Frodo, while wandering across Middle-Earth’s endless landscapes, or in the evenings around the fire. Whenever the ringbearer had lost faith his young gardener had reminded him that his uncle Bilbo’s adventure had ended well (more or less), and that they, too would return home some day.

Admiring the trolls he himself had never seen – the hobbits and Aragorn had come upon them before reaching Rivendell – Gimli watches from the corners of his eyes as Thorin and Gandalf bicker yet again.

Were it not for moments like this one (or moments like “ _You shall not pass!_ ” and flaming whips from the depths of this world) it is easy to forget that the wizard is more than just a meddling old coot.

The time-traveller smiles affectionately.

He has not been aware of how much he has been missing Gandalf in the months since Aragorn’s coronation.

His armour back in place Gimli follows the wizard and his future king into the troll hoard, finding himself unable to keep from accompanying them. With sparkling eyes he watches as Thorin lays his eyes upon Orcrist for the first time, and as Gandalf stumbles upon the blade to be called Sting. The sword – so meaningless and unknown now – will be famous in the time he comes from, known for its great deeds it has done in war, as Balin would put it. It could have carried a much greater name after the War of the Ring.

However, Gimli thinks, it is a hobbit’s blade, having done those deeds wielded by a hobbit’s hand. _Sting_ is just perfect.

Smiling slightly he carefully takes the blade from Bilbo’s shaking fingers. “Come,” he grumbles. “Let me show you a few things so that you do not hurt yourself instead of the enemy.”

The hobbit draws an indignant breath, but deflates before he has even opened his mouth. “You are probably right, that would be better,” he relents, sighing. “Up against orcs and a dragon I will not get far with my conkers, I suppose.”

Gimli snorts. “Aye, probably not,” he easily agrees, thinking about different hobbits who had also believed in the best possible outcome until the end. Leading his companion a few feet away from where the others are resting he contemplates on how gruff he carries himself, although he is the one to call Thorin a mood-killer.

Well.

This is probably the difference between being a warrior, and a scholar, toymaker or merchant. Surely, his people are not as sensitive as hobbits or elves, and they most definitely do not want to be. The rougher manners are part of their culture, of being a dwarf. Gimli has learned a lot about the way the halflings like to live, as well as the _Quendi_ and men; more than most dwarves. His people like keeping to themselves and they are happy with their way of living. Still, some see the world in harsher and greyer colours than the others. Amongst this company he is not the only one, not the only _warrior_. Dwalin is always more detached than Bofur for example, along with Balin, Óin and Bifur; and Thorin of course.

It is no wonder, Gimli thinks, that Bilbo is making faster friends with the others, and that he is eying him warily now.

The time traveller – so used to his companions being accustomed to his gruffness, even the elf – does not get the chance to give the hobbit a calming smile for a rabbit-drawn sled shoots into the clearing they are resting in, startling everyone. Gandalf immediately approaches the strange figure steering the animals, and Gimli gets to cast a first glance of Radagast the Brown.

Shaking his head he returns his attention to the hobbit.

“Come,” he says. “Wizard business. Nothing we can participate in. Let us take the opportunity to teach you a little self-defence.”

His eyes still keep swaying back to where the two Istari are standing, but Bilbo nods and turns his head at Gimli.

The dwarf smirks. “First, about your stance,” he begins without any further introduction. “You want to be standing firm, but in a way that allows you to move easily and quickly into any direction. I would tell you to dodge a blow whenever you can instead of parrying it, for that costs you far less strength – however, blows come quickly, and are hard to evade. You will need to have an excellent feeling for the distance between you and your foe for that which will only come with time. However, it should be rather easy for you compared to many others, you are agile and swift – but not exactly strong. Counting on physical strength will not get you far.” He does not give the hobbit a chance to protest.

“Now, your feet.” Gimli easily remembers the elf’s usual stance whenever he is fighting with a sword or his knives instead of bow and arrow. Legolas is a light fighter, too, concentrating on swiftness instead of pure strength, like the dwarf does. His own style is not suited for a gentle hobbit, but the elf’s will do. “Put one in front of the other – whichever you feel more comfortable with. They should be about as far apart as your shoulders, so that you could put a hand in between, and you want to have your knees bent – the deeper the better. It is quite uncomfortable and exhausting, I know, but you will get used to it. All this helps you to have a good balance and be able to move quickly.”

They hobbit listens and obeys, a look of utmost concentration on his gentle face.

“Good. Now take your sword.”

He hands the hobbit his blade and watches as he wraps the thin fingers of both his hands around the short hilt.

“Actually this sword is meant to be wielded single-handedly, possibly with a shield in the other hand. Maybe it was even meant to be used as a dirk, a long dagger. For you, however, I suppose two hands will do just fine.” The corners of his lips are twitching.

Bilbo instantly gives himself airs, incensed.

“My apology, Master Hobbit,” Gimli immediately backtracks, having a hard time keeping himself from laughing out loud. “I myself have heard many jokes about my size. It is just… nice to be on the other side for once.”

The hobbit shakes his head, but backs down, obviously understanding that.

“Well, back to our little class.”

By now Bofur and Glóin have joined them along with the princes, watching curiously.

“Now, there are different blows which you might find useful knowing. Of course, during a fight there is no time to think about technical details. Still, having practiced some techniques makes it easier to _wield_ your sword instead of waving it about. And moves practiced until they come naturally will give you a huge advantage over foes fighting without any technique.”

Fíli snickers audibly when hearing the ‘waving it about’ part.

“Come here, Fíli, please,” Gimli calls without turning around. He does not wait for the prince to follow his prompt but immediately explains: “Your preferred weapon is a sword, you should demonstrate the blows. I would not even know the names, although I can hold my own with a blade. However, I an ax-fighter and feel much more comfortable with correcting his stance.” He can tell that his grin is a little too evil by the look in the hobbit’s eyes.

Fíli grumblingly complies and takes a stance to mirror Bilbo’s. Now Kíli is the one snickering aloud.

Gimli snorts and steps next to the hobbit. “You will want to put your feet a little farther apart. Like this,” he gently nudges the big bare feet apart with his heavy boot. “There you go. Now, your centre of mass should be in the middle, which makes it easiest for you to quickly move into either direction. Also, bend your knees a little further.”

Bilbo nods, biting his lower lip in concentration as he tries to dodge imaginary blows.

“Not bad,” Gimli finally interrupts him. The hobbit still requires a lot more training, he would never make it through a full-blown battle at this point, but it will be enough to defend himself should the need arrive. Against Gollum, for example. The time traveller sighs. Hobbits are creatures not made for fighting. “Now, Fíli will show you some blows.”

“Right.” The blond dwarf smiles. “Just mirror me, aye? Great. Now: You start with the blade on the right side of your head. The hilt should be at the level of your shoulders. Now, you strike down towards your left foot in a straight line…”

Fondly Gimli watches as his friend patiently shows the hobbit how to wield his sword. By the time a loud howl interrupts them Balin and – surprisingly – Thorin, both used to fighting with a sword, have positioned themselves next to the prince, helping him while the wizards still talk.

The warg’s arrival, however, brings the lesson to a sudden end, and Thorin gets the chance to immediately prove his skills to his student. He does so with great grace, quickly ending the attacking warg’s life.

Gandalf and Radagast, forced to end their whispered conversation, quickly decide on the following course of action and then the Brown Wizard is off on his sled, attempting to detract the wargs’ and orcs’ attention from the group of fifteen running for their lives.

The first few minutes all of them are keeping up nicely, but with every time they have to stop and change direction in order to avoid getting caught the others take longer to start again, breaths going heavier. Gimli takes this wild hunt across the soft but bleak hills of Rhudaur much easier than many of his companions, and he fondly remembers that he has done his fair share of running, more than most dwarves. This time, however, he is not racing for the lives of two tiny hobbits, but for his own.

Yet he still manages to observe.

Thus he watches the way Thorin always chooses a position among the group that allows him to protect as many of the others as possible.

He also watches his king and the wizard bicker yet _again_.

Knowing that, before his own quest, he would have been the one protesting the loudest when it comes to asking an elf for help – _No one trusts an elf!_ – he keeps quiet and runs along until they stop to hide behind a huge rock.

Gimli and Thorin are the first ones to recognize the presence of one of the beasts above them and with mingled feelings the time traveller watches as their leader prompts Kíli to shoot the warg. Pursing his lips and gulping heavily the youngest of their company does as requested, carefully reaching for an arrow and then suddenly jumping backwards, ready to shoot. He hits the beast as well as its rider on first shot; however, neither of them are dead. Gimli cannot help but think that his elf would have done better, but that is okay. Legolas has an amount of years of experience a dwarf could never dream of living, and his young friend has done well enough.

Grimly he burrows his ax in the head of the warg, watching it twitch for a last time, all the while thinking about a _hunt_ similar to the one this is threatening to become, one that had ended with Aragorn falling down a cliff.

Tearing his thoughts away from that other place and time he runs with those who are his companions now and then finds his place in the circle of dwarves, knowing that Gandalf has, in fact, not abandoned them at all. He watches the others panic, already trying to urge Ori into the direction of the rock that must be the hidden pass. And, really, only moments later the wizard returns, beckoning them to hurry straight towards there. The others do not hesitate to follow and admiringly Gimli watches as Thorin stands guard, protecting each of his followers and jumping into safety only after all others have. Just like Aragorn would have done.

Suddenly bugling echoes across the Rhudaur and Gimli cannot help but smile. The sound of elven horns is one most welcome to his ears ever since the battle for Helm’s Deep.

Gandalf obviously feels the same relief he does; still the wizard seems to be mindful enough to realize the sudden easing of the tension in Gimli’s shoulders. Oh, not _again_. Mindful pain in the-

No, dwarves are not prone to cursing, not at all.

He flinches when a body comes falling into the cave they are hiding in, and is as quick as Thorin to identify the arrow sticking in the dead orc’s carotid as elven. Unlike him, however, their leader is not exactly happy about that fact. Still he tells them to follow the pathway Dwalin has found, all the while weary of what they might encounter.

When they step into sunlight they look upon delicate columns, shining roofs and shadowed patios nestled in a peaceful valley of timeless beauty. Gimli is nearly as enchanted as the hobbit.

This is the third time he sees Rivendell, the last homely house east of the sea.

He hears almost none of Gandalf’s ramblings or his companions’ complaints, far too occupied with indulging in fond reminiscences. The first time he had come to Imladris, as the elves call it, he had looked upon each and every delicate, playful column with distain. The knowledge that these halls had been made by elvish hands and that elvish feet walked them every day had kept him from enjoying the wonderful architecture, the sheer beauty of the place.

The second time Frodo had lain close to death, and when the Fellowship had arrived at Lord Elrond’s house there had been no guarantee that their small hero would make it. They had spent those long hours of cruel waiting sitting together in a room adjacent to the one where the wounded hobbit was being tended to, the Fellowship once again united but for Boromir. Many a story had been told those days, the friends filling each other in on what either of them had gone through from the moment on they had separated. When they had finally received word that their young friend would be up and about within a week, by courtesy of Lord Elrond’s healing powers, Legolas had immediately dragged Gimli off, and had gone to explore Imladris’ vast library. Not many a bibliotheca in Middle-Earth could compete with the Lord of Rivendell’s, especially not now that the elves were steadily sailing west; and Legolas had always been a curious soul.

Gimli had spent hours in the wide, welcoming halls, enjoying the atmosphere, and marvelling at one or the other ancient dwarven tome he found amongst the elven volumes. He had not taken the time to admire Rivendell then, either; far too occupied with admiring the elf.

This time, however, he can appreciate the beautiful architecture; for constructional skill surely is something Mahal’s children cherish. And that those halls are of elven making is no longer reason for Gimli to disdain, for in each of the lovingly shaped columns he can almost see his dear friend’s fine features; in each relieve and fresco portraying nature his friend’s love for everything living.

He is the first of his company to cross the bridge and step upon the floors of Lord Elrond’s palace, his heart beating harder and faster than it would in a battle.

Constantly he has to stifle the reflex to look around for a blond shock of hair.

Immediately his gaze falls upon the elvish guards who are watching them with clear distrust in their eyes, but refrain from moving. Gimli understands why the moment he sees Lindir glide forward and down the stairs, the elf looking none at all different from what the time traveller knows him to look like in the future.

“Mithrandir,” the elf greets, and Gimli cannot help but smile remembering the many times _his_ elf had addressed the wizard like that. He likes the Sindarin name meaning _grey pilgrim_ , it fits the old coot.

He thinks about the day he had discussed this with the elf, during one of their many lessons teaching each other their own tongues. He had mentioned that the dwarves call Gandalf Tharkûn, which is Khuzdul for ‘Grey-man’, or ‘Staff-man’. Being asked why he never addressed their friend that way he had explained that this was part of his people guarding their language more tightly than any other treasure. Legolas had only shaken his head then, and proceeded to let Gimli recite endless series of conjugations, but he had internalized the word like any other the dwarf had told him.

None of his companions, Gimli realizes then, have ever called the wizard Tharkûn. This _greed_ to keep their language secret runs deeper than anything else in their blood.

“Lindir,” Gandalf answers, immediately going about the matter with the tact, respect and no small degree of charm he had already announced, and which Gimli knows him so well for. (The elf would have a laughing fit, could he hear those sarcastic thoughts.)

Pretending not to understand Gimli listens as Lindir greets the wizard, smiling, and then watches Gandalf directly ask for Lord Elrond.

… That is what he calls tact and charm?

Lindir’s face falls and he begins to explain that his Lord is absent when the sound of the elven horn they have already heard on the plain echoes through Rivendell, before the company suddenly begins to form a tight circle, those least able of protecting themselves safely hidden in the middle. Gimli is so surprised by the sudden commotion that he lets himself be pulled into place by his father, all the while watching the elvish horses draw closer, the ground shaking with the impact of the hooves.

With a slight smile crawling to his twitching lips he observes as the elves draw two circles around them, obviously a lot calmer than any of his companions.

There is a reason he is called _Elf-friend_.

In the beginning he had only tolerated other elves than Legolas, knowing that they could not be as bad as he had thought, but unwilling to approach them. His dear friend, however, had made short work of his reluctance, and, really, not liking Arwen had turned out to be basically impossible. The same held true for Elrond, once Gimli had allowed himself to get to know him closer, as well as Elladan and Elrohir. And Lindir, and Erestor, and Glorfindel. And even Thranduil, when the king’s tantrum had been over. So, really, it is no surprise that he is rather amused than troubled.

Gimli does not doubt that both Gandalf and Elrond will realize that fact. Which is totally fine, by the way. After all, he absolutely needs to talk to the Lady Galadriel. And he desperately wants access to Rivendell’s library for the period of their stay.

Thus he watches as the elves try their best to make the dwarves nervous, the Lord Elrond in the lead of this short amusement. He is wearing a fine armour, and Gimli thinks that he would like to fight alongside him one day, for he knows the wise elf has seen and won many a battle.

Grinning he listens to the conversion of both aforementioned men, up until the invitation for dinner. Easily he ignores Thorin’s rudeness, already used to it. (Not that he would ever have reacted like his uncle does, no, of course not!)

He sits with the rest of his companions at the table for _ordinary mortals_ , but his place has clearly been chosen in a way that allows Lord Elrond to watch him. Oh, elves are so not good at being subtle! (He would not have realized that there is more behind his place than obvious on first sight before he had met his very own elf, but that matters little, now, does it?)

Later, when dinner is over, but before Gandalf drags the elf off and away along with Thorin, Balin and Bilbo, Gimli manages to corner the Lord of Rivendell in a quiet minute. Or the other way round. Anyway, really, both of them find each other in a beautiful hallway, moonlight painting eerie shadows upon the elf’s face, and the fact that he is different, _immortal_ , is beyond obvious.

“Master Dwarf,” he is greeted with a bow of the thousands of years old head.

“ _Mae l'ovannen, Lord Elrond_ ,” Gimli answers easily, in heavily accented but perfectly correct Sindarin, his voice as cocky as always. The elf’s surprise is clearly written across the ageless features. “ _I was wondering whether you would grant me access to your library for the time my company is enjoying your hospitality?_ ” Oh yes, he does know how to do politeness. After all, he wants something. Or maybe it is just the language. Somehow it is impossible not to sound like leaving behind a trail of slime when talking an elvish tongue.

Elrond’s eyebrows are having a field day. “ _You are very welcome to enjoy your stay in any way you want, Master Dwarf_ ,” he answers smoothly. “ _However, I shall inform Erestor, my trusted librarian, that he is to expect your presence. He will be able to help you with anything you might need._ ”

Gimli smiles a very honest smile. It will be nice to see the old bookworm again. “ _That is very generous of you, Lord Elrond_ ,” he bows his thanks.

It seems the eyebrows are even too surprised to be moving. This really is a day worth remembering.

For a few moments both of them stay silent, observing each other. Calculating.

“ _I have already realized that you stayed much calmer than your companions when we met in the forecourt_ ,” the elf finally remarks, breaking the silence. All of the Firstborn are gifted with a natural curiosity that is – in most cases – far stronger than any century-old dislike (hate). Or any self-preservation instinct. Or _anything_ , really.

“ _I have been called Elvellon_ ,” Gimli discloses, knowing fully well that it will make Lord Elrond even more curious. Which is absolutely his intent, of course.

“ _By whom?_ ” he is – as expected – asked immediately. “ _And may I ask for your name, Master Dwarf? You do know mine, after all._ ”

“ _I am called Gimin_ ,” is the dry answer. “ _Now, would you excuse me? I believe you are being expected._ ”

Elrond’s gaze follows Gimli’s and, really, Gandalf is already waiting for him, his curiosity as plainly visible as the elf’s. With a polite nod the Lord of Rivendell strides off, and Gimli does not hesitate to make for the libraries. There is no need to wait for Erestor to be informed, really. He is a big boy and can talk to tall and scary immortals all on his own, thank you very much.

And… he has made it through an entire conversation with an elf without throwing a single insult, even though Legolas has not been present to mediate.

Oh, the other would be proud of him!

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That stance I was describing (hope it was understandable O.o) - our trainer kept calling it the "Yo-stance", because you look like you think you're cool, but mostly you're looking stupid ^^
> 
> And the blow Fili shows Bilbo would be an "Oberhau" - for which I could find no proper translation, unfortunately.


	7. Memories of ages and ages and ages before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **7\. Memories of ages and ages and ages before**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 5: Riddles in the Dark_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> This time I give you  
> \- a young old friend  
> \- nosy elves  
> \- lots of alcohol  
> \- a completely smitten Gimli
> 
> Enjoy!

### 7\. Memories of ages and ages and ages before

Grinning the time-traveller marches down by now well-known corridors and straight through the huge, beautiful doors that keep thousands of precious books and scrolls in a safe environment.

He strides past Erestor, who is sitting behind a huge desk, and – without taking any detours – makes for the department containing information on time travel, happily ignoring all present elves. Within minutes he has found all the books he needs, remembering very well which ones Legolas had deemed useful when they had been waiting for Frodo’s recovery, but then he comes upon an unexpected problem: Several of the books are written in Sindarin, a few even in Westron. Most, however, are sporting titles in Quenya – as far as he can tell – and some even seem to be of the Telerin and Nandorin languages.

That complicates his research greatly.

He may have cursed a little too loudly, for suddenly Erestor is standing in front of him, the beautiful features caught somewhere between displeasure and curiosity. “May I help you, Master Dwarf?” he asks, hands clasped behind his back.

Gimli frowns. “I doubt that you can, except you want to translate all those books for me?”

Erestor’s eyebrows are attempting to rival his Lord’s at that point. “What do you need them for?”

“Research,” is the curt answer. The dwarf has taken to sorting the books by the tongues they are written in; those in Westron and Sindarin on one side of the desk he has claimed, the others at the opposite end.

“I would neither have the time, nor the wish to help you with that,” the elf refuses coolly. Then his eyes fall upon the two piles and, quite obviously, he draws the right conclusion. “You speak Sindarin?” The surprise is clear in his words.

“ _I do_ ,” Gimli answers absent-mindedly, thinking that this stay in elven halls is a perfect opportunity for him to practice his dear friend’s tongue. “ _I would prefer if you did not alert my companions to that fact, though._ ”

“ _I was not planning to_ , is the bewildered answer. “ _Besides, I highly doubt that any of them will find their way here._ ”

“You may just be right about that,” Gimli mutters.

The corners of Erestor’s lips are twitching. “Well. In that case – please, let me help.”

He feels his face light up in positive surprise. “ _Your offer is most welcome!_ ” (It is a curious occurrence, really, that his wording always resembles his elven friend’s when speaking his tongue. He should find out whether the same goes for Legolas’ Khuzdul!)

(For a short, hilarious moment he imagines what phrases the ents’ language must be built on.)

In the meantime the librarian has disappeared for a few moments, and is now returning with two comfortable chairs. “Here,” he says, placing one behind Gimli, and the other next to it. “This might take a while.” He reaches for the book on top of the Quenya-pile. “Now: what kind of information are you looking for? I will write it out for you, while you browse through the Sindarin and Westron books, alright?” From the depths of a drawer he produces a stack of parchments, a few quills and an inkpot.

“Yes, that would be perfect. Thank you,” Gimli answers, heartfelt. He takes a seat, reaches for parchment and quill. “I want to look into the magic behind time-travelling,” he then explains, knowing that – if he wants to know what the books he cannot read say – he has to reveal that much. “Also, I am interested in what ways time travels have happened in the ages passed.”

For a moment Erestor squints his eyes, but then he smiles brightly and nods. “Alright,” he agrees, and reaches for writing utensils as well.

The next hours are filled with no sounds but those of parchment rustling and quills scratching, a comfortable and concentrated silence having settled over the small room, part of the huge library. Long have the sunrays diminished outside the colourful glass windows and they are working under the flickering light of a few lanterns when Lord Elrond himself enters their working space, carrying a small tray with food, goblets and a pitcher.

“ _I already assumed that I would find you here_ ,” he says, amused. Carefully he lifts a stack of parchments filled with neatly written notes, making room for the tray. “ _I see that you have managed to acquaint yourselves without my help. Please, do not forget to eat. I would attempt to coax you into a break, but knowing my librarian I will save myself the breath and energy._ ” His lips are twitching with soft, fond amusement.

He turns to face Gimli directly, then. “ _I have talked to Mithrandir about you. He knows more than me, but less than he would like. If you have travelled through time that explains how it is possible that word about a dwarf being called Elvellon has not reached me._ ” He smiles, and realization dawns on Erestor’s features. “ _Do not worry, your secret is safe with me, as it is with Erestor. I have sworn the same oath Mithrandir swore, and was most amazed to learn that one of your companions is actually your father… Gimli Glóin’s son._ ”

Gimli cannot help but roll his eyes. “ _I should have known that he would talk_ ,” he grumbles.

Elrond chuckles. “ _Considering that you seem to have known him before coming here – yes, you should have_ ,” he easily agrees. “ _Anyway. If I can be of help in any way – please let me know._ ”

The dwarf wonders how much he can disclose. “ _Maybe…_ ” he hesitantly begins, only continuing after seeing Erestor’s encouraging nod. “ _If the Lady Galadriel should… happen to call upon Imladris, would it be possible that I talk to her?_ ”

Elrond’s eyebrows are dancing across their carrier’s forehead with an elegance that would make any elven maid go green with envy. Obviously he has already planned for the White Council to take place in Rivendell within a few days.

“ _I shall inform her of your request_ ,” the Lord finally answers, and actually smiles a wide, honest smile. “ _It is my conviction that you have been sent here for a reason, thus be assured of my help in whatever way I can provide_ ,” he then promises seriously, before turning to leave the library. “And do not forget to eat,” they hear him call from two rooms further.

Erestor shakes his head, grinning. “A time-traveller,” he repeats, voice awed. “I did not think that I would meet another one during my stay in Middle-Earth.”

Gimli has already opened his mouth to _ask_ , but the elf has only just taken up his quill again and his eyes are fixed on a pale elven script in an ancient tome. With his free hand he reaches for the pitcher and pours each of them a goblets of clear, fresh water, careful not to spill a drop.

Surrendering the dwarf takes the time to eat one of the delicious pies waiting for them, followed by a bite of lembas. Obviously the elves do not only make use of that bread when on long journeys, but also during long nights of research. He is more than fine with that, knowing that he will be able to fully concentrate on his work now.

Underneath their shared concentration night easily passes into day and only when afternoon arrives Gimli puts his quill away and stretches, his pile having shrunken down to three books.

Erestor raises his deep eyes from his work, he still has five tomes and a scroll left. His stack of notes is disturbingly high and next to the parchment he is writing onto lies a dictionary that he has picked up at some point during the night – obviously he is already working on the Telerin and Nandorin records. “Do you need a break?” he asks and Gimli knows for certain that the elf will not think any less of him if he confirms.

“I do,” he admits thus and rises, enjoying the sensation of moving after having sat for so long. “My eyes are tired, as are my fingers. I am a warrior, not a scholar.”

The librarian smiles. “I thought so,” he admits. “I advise that you get some sleep. Perhaps you should also show your companions that the evil elves have not killed you.” Both of them snicker. “Go on. I will finish this up for you.”

“I… cannot-”

“Sure you can.” Erestor rises as well and begins to push Gimli towards the door. “How about that: I will not come by to give you my notes, but you return here tomorrow and we chat a little, over a glass of good wine.”

The dwarf smiles. “That would be splendid,” he gives in, and lets himself be shoved out of the room. “ _Thank you!_ ” After all, who would be able to say no to elven wine?

“ _You are most welcome_ ,” is the absent answer, the elf clearly already concentrating on his work again.

Shaking his head fondly – _elves!_ – Gimli makes for where his company must be – the only noisy place in this immortal valley. He finds them easily: bathing in a huge, beautiful fountain. Naked. He also sees the shock on Elrond’s face when he and Lindir stumble upon the (for those proper, prim creatures perhaps rather disturbing) scene. Suppressing a gleeful cackle Gimli marches past them, grinning cockily, and towards the merry and very wet gathering. His companions are so occupied with their epic three-storey rooster fight tournament that they do not even question where he has spent the night when he asks for the rooms they have been given.

He then immediately makes for the pointed out suite and falls asleep the moment his head has touched the very fluffy pillow.

His body uses this rare chance to get all the sleep he has denied it in the last weeks and he when he wakes again from unsettling dreams about elves and dwarves and rooster fight wars it is almost noon.

The rest of his company – safe Bilbo – has gathered in an adjacent room, happily burning furniture in order to grill sausages despite the fact that they are going to be served a proper meal within minutes; and that they have let him sleep was clearly of Bofur’s making. Gimli sits with them for about an hour, enjoying a lush lunch and the dirty jokes exchanged, before he excuses himself and slips out into the corridor before any of his companions has even opened his mouth to protest.

Easily he finds his way back to the huge library; however, when he has almost reached the wide halls again something completely unexpected happens: He stumbles upon young boy with soft brown hair and deep blue eyes, eyes he knows very well. Also, although having fine features, the child clearly is not elvish. Holding his breath Gimli does the counting, and actually forgets to breathe when he realizes that he is standing in front of ten-year-old Aragorn.

He cannot help but kneel down, and give the boy his most beaming smile. (Which, most likely, is still rather gruff.) “ _I am Gimli, son of Glóin_ ,” he introduces himself, finding himself unable to give this child who should one day be his best friend a false name.

“ _I am Estel_ ,” the boy answers, his voice bell-like. “ _You are a dwarf_ ,” he then states.

Gimli chuckles. “ _That I am_ ,” he easily agrees.

“ _But you speak Sindarin. Dwarves do not speak Sindarin, they speak Khuz-dul._ ” He stumbles over the word that is so harsh compared to the elvish tongue.

“ _I am very good friends with an elf_ ,” Gimli explains.

“ _With whom? Do I know them?_ ” the boy asks, eager and curios like any proper elfling.

Gimli knows, he should not tell him, but this is _Aragorn_. He is the best friend Gimli has ever had apart from Legolas, and the best leader he has ever come upon apart from Thorin. (Who will always come first as his King.) “ _Will you… do you promise not to tell anyone what you know about me?_ ”

“ _I promise._ ” Estel’s sweet voice is so very sincere.

“ _Alright. Now, surely you have heard of King Thranduil of the woodland realm?_ ”

“ _Of course I have!_ ”

“ _Then you also know about his son?_ ”

“ _Legolas!_ ”

Gimli smiles fondly. “ _Exactly. And it is Legolas who is my friend._ ”

The boy gapes. “ _But the Great Greenwood is far away!_ ”

“ _That it is. You have to go across the Misty Mountains, Hithaeglir, and the plains of the Great River Anduin, and then make it to the other side of the Greenwood._ ”

“ _But you have been there?_ ”

“ _Yes, and I am on my way there again._ ”

“ _Can I come with you?_ ” the child immediately begs, huge eyes round and pleading.

It breaks Gimli’s heart to say no. “ _I am afraid you have to stay here._ ” The boy’s shoulders sag. “ _But how about that: I will return, and bring Legolas with me, and then you get to know him, too._ ”

“ _Oh, yes!_ ” Estel is bouncing now.

“ _We have an agreement, then_ ,” Gimli smiles. “ _Now, I have promised Erestor to meet him. Can you show me where he is?_ ” Of course Gimli knows where to look for the elf, but he does not want to say goodbye to his young friend just yet. The young hope of men has wrapped him around his little finger with but a few sentences and sweet looks – not that he minds.

The child nods eagerly and instantly tears off into the direction of the library, barely giving his dwarven friend the chance to follow. They dart past the mural painting showing Isildur defeating Sauron, and it is all Gimli can do not to stop and reach for the broken blade of Narsil.

Estel’s laugh, however, is clear and carefree and _intoxicating_ , and the dwarf finds himself unable not to dash after his friend like he once did follow him across the Eastemnet, his deep guffaw mingling with the bright pearls and his heavy dwarven boots hitting the delicate elven-made floor in total contrast to the boy’s light steps.

Whenever Aragorn calls upon him, Gimli will follow.

When the dwarf rushes into the huge halls Estel has already jumped at Erestor, and the librarian has caught the boy, holding him close. Elves, like dwarves blessed with very few children, cherish their young as much as Mahal’s sons do. Every Firstborn in the formerly quiet rooms that are now filled with excited chatter smiles indulgently at the boy, instead of complaining.

Gimli knows that his face is probably way too open as he watches the happy child, so careless and free. There are worlds between the Estel of these days, the Aragorn who had pledged his life and sword to a small hobbit, and the Elessar who will be crowned King of Arnor and Gondor in a far future.

Erestor carries the boy to the door where Gimli is already waiting, and sets his young charge down, before smiling at the dwarf.

After waving at the redhead Estel scurries away, very pleased with himself, and the librarian leads his visitor to a room adjacent to the great hall which contains most of the books and scrolls. It is obviously his office, filled with documents and files instead of tomes and records about any topic imaginable. He offers Gimli a chair and walks to close the door, before opening a wooden cupboard.

“Alright, what do you prefer? I have two bottles of a very good wine, a flask of miruvor, and I could easily get a keg of ale from the kitchens.”

Gimli raises an eyebrow. He had not expected ‘chat over a glass of wine’ to mean ‘get drunk as a lord’. Well, he is totally fine with the latter. “I would not want you to open your miruvor, so how about we empty your wine and when our taste buds are properly benumbed we continue with the ale?” He sure knows to appreciate a good elven wine.

Erestor laughs. “That sounds like an excellent plan,” he agrees, and carries two chalices to the table, along with the bottles. He opens the first one, pours both of them a generous amount, and then settles into his own chair.

“Now tell me, _Elvellon_ , how do you know Estel? Have you met him in your future?”

Blasted elf-eyes, they miss nothing, Gimli thinks. “However you know that I have not come from a past gone by,” he mutters.

Erestor laughs again. “Elrond has talked,” is all he says on the matter.

Gimli rolls his eyes. “You immortals are such gossips!” he complains. They chink glasses, toasting.

“ _Almien!_ ” the dwarf says the traditional Quenya word.

The elf laughs yet again. “ _Almien!_ ” He takes a sip, closing his eyes as he appreciates the bouquet. “True,” he then agrees, returning to their topic of discussion. “But you have to understand – the world gets boring after the first few millennia. For us, every distraction is welcome.” He grins.

The dwarf remembers how well Erestor and _his_ elf had gotten along upon their second stay in Rivendell, and cannot help but wish for Legolas to be here. “You are simply terribly nosy, each and every one of you,” he retorts in the meantime.

“Maybe.”

Gimli is getting used to the bright laughter.

They exchange a few more teasing insults, both enjoying that trading them results in bouts of laughter instead of blood and war and death, like it usually would.

Erestor hands the dwarf a pack of parchments, all filled with lines upon lines of notes. Part of them are written in a neat, easily legible script, the elegant Tengwar characters flowing across the page like a piece of art. The others, which are far messier, have been pinned down in angular shaped Angerthas runes, giving them a far rougher appearance.

The elf’s gaze is curious when his eyes fall upon the dwarven writing, but he manages to wrestle down his thirst for knowledge.

“Thank you,” Gimli says again, sincerely. “You were of great help.”

Erestor smiles honestly. “It was my pleasure.”

The dwarf takes the time to quickly skim over the information Erestor has gathered, before putting the fruits of their nightly labours away and drowning the rest of wine in his chalice in one gulp. “Yes, that really is good wine you have got there,” he then agrees contently.

Once more the elf’s laughter pearls through the room as he refills the chalice.

Then the interrogation begins.

“ _Now, tell me, Gimli Glóin’s son – how has it happened that you have travelled through time?_ ” Gimli raises and eyebrow and the librarian immediately justifies himself: “You yourself have said that my race is terribly nosy!”

“ _That I have_ ,” Gimli admits, sighing in defeat. “ _Alright. There is not much I can tell you, though. I do not know why I have been sent here, for I have not come on purpose. It is beyond my knowledge whether or not I am supposed to change the course of history. However, I pray that I am._ ”

Erestor’s eyes are very understanding when he asks: “ _What will occur that has you pray for it to be prevented?_ ”

Gimli stares at the elf he has struck up a teasing friendship with, in another time. He weighs his options, watching as the elf stays miraculously patient, although his curiosity is obvious. “ _In… a few years’ time… a fellowship will form; here, in Rivendell_ ,” he finally says, slowly, “ _consisting of two men, one elf, one dwarf, four hobbits and a wizard. We will set out for a hazardous quest and many things that should never have happened will come to be._ ”

He is not going to say more on the topic, and apparently Erestor can tell that. So instead of asking he pours each of them another glass, before stating with twinkling eyes: “ _Surely Gandalf is the wizard you are talking about._ ”

Gimli raises his glass in a mock salute. “ _True_ , he agrees, taking a sip.

“ _And… if I may venture a guess… might young Estel be one of the two men at your side?_ ”

Blasted elves, they are far too intelligent and perceptive for their own good. (Age does that to people, he supposes.) “ _Maybe_ ,” is all he says on the matter, well aware that this is as much as an affirmation. “ _And no, I am not going to reveal who the elf is._ ”

“ _Which is probably for the better_ ,” Erestor gives in. “ _However, it certainly explains how you have come upon the name Elvellon. Here, drink some more._ ”

The librarian is quite talented at refilling.

Six hours later finds a very drunk elf, an even drunker dwarf and three empty kegs of ale next to the two emptied bottles of wine.

When Gimli tries (and fails spectacularly) to return to his bed without attracting attention way past midnight he is intercepted by two very nosy princes and his father, all three of them asking where he has been. And where he has gotten the ale from. And what those parchments he is carrying are for. And anyway.

The night goes on farther for a long time after that, and one of the rooms provided for the dwarves is particularly noisy, while the others are filled with no sounds but those of thunderous snores. The elves, for a change do not mind the background noise. Many of Rivendell’s residents have gathered in their Lord Elrond’s lounge, trying their very best to tickle as much information as possible out of an unfortunately very silent Erestor. (Not that any of the dwarves know that, of course, although Gimli might guess.)

Glóin, Fíli and Kíli back down maybe an hour before dawn, all of them deciding to finally retire – all but Gimli, who is paid an unexpected visit by a very awake Lord Elrond the moment his companions have fallen asleep, and asked to follow the old warrior to a beautiful pavilion. The dwarf, still rather on the drunk side, complies happily, stepping through a lovely archway before he stops dead in his tracks, staring at a figure standing in front of him.

There is no mistaking the silhouette outlined against the moonlit sky.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did the research when I wrote this about 2 years ago... imagine my surprise when Thranduil told Legolas to go and find "Strider" in the last movie.  
> Arrgh!!


	8. Like a shadow on the borders of old stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **8\. Like a shadow on the borders of old stories**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 2. The Shadow of the Past_
> 
>  
> 
> \---  
>  
> 
> So, I watched the extended edition of Unexpected Journey, and I laughed my ass off.  
> Gimli can't really believe it, either.
> 
> I'm going through this part rather quickly. You know what happens, after all...
> 
> Have fun!

### 8\. Like a shadow on the borders of old stories

He gasps for air, watching as the beautiful elvish Lady turns around, and almost feels her enter his mind the second they make eye-contact. He does not try to stop her, because, frankly, he does not want to. Freely he offers her whatever information she might be looking for, all the while staring into those ancient pale blue eyes. Her golden hair shines, reflecting the moonlight.

When she breaks the connection her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. There is a strange line about her mouth and her features look like set in stone. She has seen what will come to pass, no doubt.

For minutes neither of them moves.

Suddenly, without any warning, she re-establishes the bond. _That is dangerous knowledge that you have, Master Dwarf._ Her voice is bright and clear in his mind.

He bows his head, agreeing.

_Yet you do not plan on using it, not unless you are sure that it is for the best_ , she then states, the dark lines slowly melting from her beautiful ageless face like ice warmed by a ray of sun. _That is very noble of you, Gimli, son of Glóin._

“It is the right thing to do,” he declares, well aware that she knows his pain about maybe having to let his friends, his King, perish.

_That it is_ , she agrees. _Not many would have the strength to do so. However, I believe with the help of your elvish friend you will be capable of doing whatever necessary._

Of course she has found out about _that_ , too.

_You hoped to receive an answer on what you should do from me. I am afraid I cannot help you for now; however, I shall look into the matter and inform you of what I believe to be the best course of action before the battle I saw in your memories arrives. Of course you may also contact me whenever you have any questions._

Gimli nods his thanks. “I am most grateful for that offer,” he answers sincerely, bows stiffly and then turns around to leave the pavilion and ask for a raven before getting ready for departure. It seems a meeting with the Lady Galadriel is as good a medicine against a hangover as any; and he urgently needs to inform Legolas about this latest development.

Her bright laughter and a called _Do not leave yet, Gimli, son of Glóin_ resounding in his mind make him stop.

“There is something I want to give to you,” she says, and a beautiful smile lightens up both her fair face and the night. Swiftly she tears three strands of hair form her golden head, offering them to the dwarf. “You may ask Lord Elrond for a suitable receptacle,” she winks before turning around and returning to the platform where the pavilion opens up to the abyss, her silhouette once more outlined against the night.

Gimli stands unmoving for a few moments, clutching the dear keepsake to his heart. Finally he manages to shake off the rigour that has taken a hold of him and marches off into the direction he has come from, not daring to look back.

Elrond is waiting for him at the base of the pale stairs he takes, an amused smile on his lips.

Clearly he has listened in.

Elves and their curiosity.

“Come,” he says, “follow Lindir. He will provide you with what you are looking for. I myself, I am afraid, have to go about my duties now.”

“Thank you,” Gimli says, voice hoarse, and follows the other elf who was standing a few feet behind his Lord. The poet leads him through many a hallway and corridor until they reach a wide room filled with cabinets and vitrines. In every single one trinkets and pieces of jewellery and other precious objects are shining and sparkling, each one more beautiful than the next. His dwarvish heart beats faster upon all the gold and silver and gems.

“Please,” Lindir says, “take whatever you need for your purpose.”

Gimli, a very honourable dwarf, takes not more than one piece: A silver necklace with a pendant made of a small glass vial. It fits the three strands of golden hair just perfectly, and the time traveller walks away, feeling much better with his good-luck charm back above his heart.

In the meantime Lindir has gotten hold of a raven for him, and Gimli makes a detour to the libraries, pinning down a quick message in sharp Angerthas:

_Khathuzh,  
This is written to inform you that I have spoken to the Lady. She promised to look into the matter and let us know in time, until then we must not risk anything. She also returned her gift for me._

He hesitates, but then puts a last sentence down, before signing with his true name.

_I cannot wait to meet you.  
Bâhur Azaghâl_

Walking back to the suite where his companions must be getting ready to leave he quietly talks to the bird perched on his shoulder, asking the animal to take the message to Legolas. By the time he reaches the others the raven has already flown off and he is as ready to depart as he ever will be. He knows that his company will be leaving while the White Council takes place, and is slightly disappointed that he will not be able to bid his farewells to Erestor. He would write a few lines to be found when these rooms are being cleaned, were he not too nervous to be caught writing Tengwar with his fellow dwarves so close.

Within a few minutes they have left the welcoming halls of Lord Elrond’s realm, walking as quietly as they have ever walked. Thorin leads them towards a path Gandalf must have told him of, winding through the valley and up towards the peaks of the Misty Mountains.

The familiar weight of the necklace makes marching into the dawn much easier for Gimli who, other than the hobbit, does not turn around to look back. He knows that the Lady of Lórien’s thoughts will be with them on their journey, and is calmer than he has ever been since finding himself stranded in this time.

Truly, the fairest of all elven Ladies always makes his heart lighter.

Through heat and rain he marches easily, realizing soon enough that now that they are venturing into the Misty Mountains they are no longer far from meeting the skinchanger. Of course they will have to go through battle and pain and fire first, but that will be well worth it – for Legolas will be waiting on the other side. Driven forward by that prospect Gimli follows his leader into the cold and darkness of the Hithaeglir, not hesitating for a moment.

Still the sudden movement of rock and stone shocks him, and with wide eyes he watches what he has only heard about in stories.

Suddenly the path beneath them shakes and he clings to the stone wall in his back – the same stone the halls of Moria are hewn from – as part of his company is being whirled away, caught up in a battle of _stone giants_. He has expected it, of course, but still the sheer size of the battling creatures takes his breath and leaves him fearing for his life. Unlike the others, however, he does have hope to make it out of this alive, and he easily jumps onto an unmoving platform when the opportunity arises while half or their company is still being spun about.

He watches them crash into mountain with the same fear in his eyes that he sees in Thorin’s and Kíli’s and, sighing, assesses that knowing in advance how everything will end does not make living through it any less terrifying.

His princeling friend makes it out of that disaster, though, along with the others. And _of course_ they find Bilbo dangling from a sharp edge, his grip threatening to slip any moment. Thorin is the one to unhesitatingly jump forward to help him, for despite the fact that he is terribly annoyed by the hobbit Bilbo still is part of the company who followed him into this madcap quest, and he would give his life for any of them.

Gimli smiles, able to look through Thorin’s mask more and more often, finding a great king and loving uncle instead of the always disgruntled family member who never is there he remembers from his childhood. He is well aware that he has grown up quite a bit since having seen his uncle for the last time (in another lifetime), most definitely due to his own quest, and his own will to risk everything in order to protect the lands he calls home. He is not sure whether he should laugh about the better understanding, or weep for all that has been lost during the war that has offered him this chance.

Dwalin finds them a dry cave and they rush into it, eagerly accepting that illusion of safety. Gimli sees the way Thorin and Dwalin look about, and he knows he is not the only one aware of the danger they are actually in.

His own father, unfortunately, is not. It is a good thing that their leader has more common sense, and keeps him from lighting a fire.

_Really._

They try to make themselves comfortable, then, preparing their bedrolls and retiring as soon as possible.

Unsurprisingly, however, sleep eludes Gimli that night once again. He should have taken first watch in Bofur’s stead, he thinks, as he listens to the heart-wrenching conversion about homes, well aware that Thorin is wide awake, too. He is touched when he realizes how much his Shire really means to Bilbo, what he has given up coming on this adventure. (What Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin gave up when they agreed to take the Ring to Mordor.) It fills him with warmth that Bilbo is not here for adventure, or gold, but for _them_.

For Thorin.

When Bofur spots the blue glow of Sting and their leader shouts at them to get up Gimli is startled, torn from his thoughts, but quickly calms down again.

Everything he _cannot_ lose is securely tucked away in the small pouch hidden underneath his chainmail (including his and Erestor’s notes), the pendant with Galadriel’s hair safe above his heart and the ax already in his hands. The rest does not matter.

He is prepared for this.

Still, the fall is far from pleasant.

He is a dwarf, made of sturdy material, but sliding down a bumpy stone tube, into the heart of a mountain that is inhabited by goblins, is not exactly what he would do for fun. All of them take this better than Bilbo, though, Gimli reminds himself and lets the goblins grab at him, kicking them as often as he manages to, his fingers clutched around the hilt of his labrys. He knows that he will get it back in the end, but letting go of it still feels _wrong_.

The goblins have a terrible taste of music – and humour – the time traveller cannot help but think. If there was at least some reasonable rhythm, maybe their chanting would not be that unbearable. And the Goblin King may possess a lot of things, but he does _not_ have a singing voice.

Gimli shudders.

It is an abomination, like Balin rightly says.

They are being searched then, and he knows, the elf would have a laughing fit knowing that Gimli’s biggest problem is that he is terribly ticklish. He does not have to keep himself together for long, though, for soon the goblins stop and his companions try their best to talk them out of this… situation. It does not really work, of course. Especially not when Bofur opens his mouth and gets lost in definitions, which confuses and angers the Goblin King equally.

They are threatened with torture, then, and – finally – Thorin speaks up.

Which was probably not a good idea, since he is immediately recognized.

And the Goblin King is even worse at attempting to bow gracefully than he is at singing.

(And Gimli should really get a hold of his sarcasm.)

Then – Azog is mentioned again and Gimli can almost watch Thorin’s blood boil. Disbelievingly he then observes as one of the goblins sails down into the darkness, sitting in a sling that is attached to a rope. The creature is cackling menacingly, all the while furiously scribbling away in what is most likely an illegible script.

The time-traveller thinks that he must be imagining things, that this cannot be right. Surely this part of the glorious quest for Erebor was not this… ridiculous?

(Maybe Ori _forgot_ to mention some details in his records.)

He is, however, reminded that all this is real and quite serious business when suddenly a great clamour arises and, without a warning, whips come down upon them – the Goblin King has lain his eyes upon Orcrist, and the cruelty of his subjects seems to have increased tenfold upon the mention of that one blade.

Then a bony dagger is getting dangerously close to Thorin’s throat and Gimli tries to fight his capturers with twice as much vigour, desperately trying to break away, to _save his King_ \- … when, without a warning, a blast comes over them, followed by darkness.

Gandalf’s silhouette is easily recognizable against the light in his back, and with the wizard’s arrival strength and the will to fight seep back into the dwarves’ veins; and Gimli finally manages to break loose.

He is thrown his ax and immediately his muscles turn into steel and stone, the thrill of _battle_ coming over him just like that. He lets go of all ridiculous thoughts and fights with all the furore and ire of a dwarvish warrior attacked by sheer endless numbers of filthy goblins. Next to him Dwalin is burning, and Bifur is raging. Gandalf leads them away, across narrow wooden paths and they all follow, killing and harming and fighting for their lives themselves all the while.

This time Gimli does not try to withstand the pull and lets himself be bound to the group; he fights alongside his brave companions, running deeper and deeper into the mountain, _down, down, down in Goblin Town_.

They slice their way through the goblins, pulling off some pretty unbelievable feats one can only do when in mortal peril until, out of nowhere, the Goblin King breaks through the planks, stopping their race into the depth. Gandalf makes short shrift of him, though, and soon they are falling, even deeper. They are lucky beyond belief, for the abyss beneath them narrows in a way that saves their lives, their landing being far from as hard as it would have been otherwise.

For a change Bombur is not the one landing atop all of them.

However, the Goblin King takes care of that. (And Gimli could have killed Bofur for his completely inappropriate and clearly fate-tempting comment.)

They bob up as quickly as possible, crawling out of the wooden mess, and Gandalf leads them towards sunlight now, towards the day, and is it not a nice coincidence that they happen to come out on the other side of the mountain?

What is _not_ a nice coincidence is that the goblin scribe obviously did his job, and fast at that. Just when Bilbo has appeared out of thin air – and Gimli _knows_ that the One Ring is now tucked safely away in the hobbit’s pocket, and fights the overwhelming urge to tear it out and run to Mount Doom without stopping until he has taken care of it – surprising Thorin yet again, a warg’s howl alerts them to their enemy’s presence. (Which is not exactly tactically wise, really.)

So they run as fast as their short feet can carry them and Bilbo rather involuntarily pulls off his first kill, barely making it onto one of the rescuing trees in time. And then…

…Azog is there.

Gimli watches the wargs attack, clutching to the trunk of his tree, and again he almost forgets that they will make it out of this alive, too caught up by the helplessness of the situation.

(Will they? Maybe the weight of one dwarf more will ultimately uproot the tree, make them drop off the cliff, now that all of them are hanging in this one conifer, maybe him being here will make the difference, maybe-)

Suddenly Gandalf is throwing burning cones at the beasts attacking them, and all the companions participate eagerly, relieved to be able to do _something_. Thinking that were the elf here he would not feel so helpless, he would stand up and fight despite all odds, Gimli watches the wargs recoil from the flames dancing in front of their noses and remembers that they are wild animals, even though they are obeying the orcs’ every word. Which is a dark reminder of the fact the orcs were elves, once, before having been tortured and tormented until they turned into those foul creatures. He imagines Legolas being excruciated like that, until everything Gimli loves about him makes way for darkness and death. He feels sick to his stomach.

(At least, he thinks, there are no uruks among this pack.)

He is torn from those dark thoughts and old memories by Thorin, who manages to pull himself onto the trunk and then _charges_.

Oh, by all gods!

Of course Gimli has known that this would happen, having been told every tale about his heroic leader so often, but still, seeing it shocks him to the core. This is his _King_ out there, marching alone against a clearly superior enemy. He tears his eyes away from what is going to be, _has_ to be a disaster, and attempts to climb onto the trunk as well, frenziedly. Absently he realizes that Bilbo manages to stand up, and then comes to Thorin Oakenshield’s aid.

He finds the strength and balance to do so as well, then, and in the wake of Dwalin rushes forward, the princes at his side.

Fighting is _good_ ; it is so much better than helplessly dangling from a tree, and angrily Gimli wields his ax, battling wargs and orcs and protecting his fallen king.

He realizes that Azog makes for Bilbo instead of Durin’s heirs, and fights his way over. He would not have been fast enough, he is brutally aware of that; however, fortunately he does not have to be, for suddenly there are huge claws clutching at the orcs, enormous wings fanning the flames, deadly beaks hacking at the enemy. Gimli is being picked up and dropped onto another eagle’s back, and although he knows that he will be safe he cannot stop that tiny yelp form being torn from his lips.

Dwarves are not meant to be in the air.

They are not meant to be dropped, they are not meant to be tossed (he thinks about _Nobody tosses a dwarf!_ , and _Don’t tell the elf!_ and is very relieved that Legolas has not heard this very unmanly cry) and they are not meant to fly on an eagle’s back.

Just like elves are not meant to dwell in caves and underneath mountains.

Absent-mindedly he watches Gandalf jump off the falling trunk, literally taking a leap of faith – and wishes that he could have the same faith in those muscles and feathers beneath him.

He closes his eyes, then, and hides his face in soft feathering, trying to forget that he is flying. He thinks about the elf instead, lets his mind travel ahead to the east, even faster than the powerful wings are carrying them. He knows, from the many tales his father has told about this quest (and those Frodo has recounted of his Uncle Bilbo’s adventure) that they will be reaching the safety of Beorn’s place soon, within two days, and that occupies his mind well enough.

His stomach flips when he feels them lose altitude, but he forces his mind to stay with the good, hefty meal that is awaiting them, along with blue eyes and delicate features.

Fortunately the eagles do not drop them onto the plateau where Thorin is already lying, but lower them down gently, and soon Gimli is rushing towards his fallen king, who Gandalf is already kneeling next to, more than relieved to see their leader open his eyes.

Yes, he _knows_ what must happen.

Still, seeing Thorin Oakenshield like this leaves him shaken and alleviated beyond belief.

Dwalin and Kíli immediately move forward to help their proud (and no longer broken) King rise, who is ready to face the halfling.

And face Bilbo he does.

He gives the hobbit verbal hell, before finally admitting that he has been mistaken. And when they hug… Gimli can almost feel all those emotions boiling between them, and it breaks his heart to know that neither will act on them.

Reminding himself that meddling is not his job, but a certain wizard’s, he turns around in time with the others only to lie his eyes upon a distant peak, dark against the setting sun. He gasps for air, then, just like his companions, when he sees his _home_. He has spent the last years of his youth in Erebor’s wide halls, as well as the better part of his adult life (before going on a mad quest to save Middle-Earth) – having been one of those who had their homeland reclaimed for them. He knows that mountain, knows its halls and caverns, but laying eyes upon it like this, with his brothers in arms, his _family_ at his side, still makes his heart beat faster.

Because this moment means so much.

It brings their goal home to them, what they are fighting for, and he sees the will to – if necessary – die for this quest renewed in the eyes of each of his companions.

Of course Gandalf is the one who breaks the deep, reverent silence.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're _finally_ getting closer to Beorn's - YAY :D


	9. It seems a terrible long time that I've been away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **9\. It seems a terrible long time that I've been away**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 7: The Mirror of Galadriel_
> 
>  
> 
> \---  
>  
> 
> So, let's see whether I'll disappoint your expectations concerning the company's reaction in this chapter :p

### 9\. It seems a terrible long time that I've been away

“We should move on,” Gandalf says. “Our enemies are not far behind us, and they travel quickly. Every minute we stay here they draw closer.”

Thorin darts the wizard a dark look, but the spell is broken. Each of them grips their weapons and whatever little they may have left, and then they make for the stairs leading down, down, down. The descent seems to take them ages, the number of steps not appearing to become any less no matter how many they take. Evening has almost come when they finally reach the foot of the Carrock, as Gandalf calls it, and all of them are more than ready for a good night’s sleep. The wizard, however, urges them to move on, claiming that there is no time to be lost. They march through the night, no matter their variously battered states, and when the next morning dawns Bilbo is sent scouting: How much advance is still left, how close has their enemy gotten?

The hobbit sneaks off, going about that business in a very Tookish way.

He returns with bad news.

Azog and his pack have gained much more ground than any of them has expected; they are a couple of leagues away, no farther. Also, a huge bear is in the vicinity. It is doubtful that they could fight off either of them, not to mention – if the worst should happen – both at the same time. It is then that Gandalf, finally, tells them about a house that is near, where they can seek refuge.

When Thorin asks whether the owner is friend or foe the wizard’s answer is rather unsettling: “Neither. He will either help us… or he will kill us.”

And Gimli knows that the moment he has been awaiting impatiently for weeks now is coming closer with every passing second.

_Finally_.

Gandalf urges them on, then, across plains and through forest, running and running and running; and still both of their threats draw dangerously close. They barely manage to reach the safety of Beorn’s house without being torn into pieces by said skinchanger’s second form, and it is only when they have locked the door that Gandalf explains to them that who they have just fled from was in fact their host.

Gimli does not listen.

He hastily looks around the room, trying to get a glimpse of golden hair and a slim stature. When he does not he deflates visibly, sitting down at the huge table and ignoring his companions.

Was the other delayed? Has something happened to him? Will he arrive to meet him before they have to move on?

So many questions and so few answers.

Soon night falls upon the valley of the Anduin, and the rest of his company lies down to sleep. Gimli stays sitting at the table, wide awake; his heart beating too fast and his mind filled with chaos. Gandalf darts him a worried glance, but in the end retires to a bed of straw as well. The silence falling upon the house would be eerie, were it not constantly interrupted by the loud snores of thirteen dwarves who have never learned to sleep quietly.

(Gimli has.)

He is startled when suddenly a back door too small to fit the grand bear’s frame is opened and a figure – no, _two_ – quietly step into the room, one of them jumping into the air and clinging to a roof joist easily, darting across the room to fast for the unskilled eye to see. The other figure is huge and the silhouette gives the impression of an almost feral man, who is breathing heavily.

The first one, now located at the other end of the room, Gimli recognizes instantly.

The moment he lays eyes upon the figure – tall and slender, hair moving slightly in the nightly breeze blowing through an opened window, and eyes from another world almost glowing in the dark, fixed on him – Gimli’s world tilts and tilts until it is moving in the right direction again and everything is as it _should_ be.

This is what it means that Legolas is his One.

He has jumped to his feet within the blink of an eye, and, as quietly as possible, rushes across the room, towards the skinchanger. He briefly stops in front of Beorn, giving him a silent bow of the head, before he moves on, the direction the other newcomer has taken; and reaches up to gently tap his forehead against the one already coming down to meet his, its owner sitting at the huge table. They then greet each other the proper elvish way, before Gimli unceremoniously wraps his arms around the tall figure’s torso, like men would do.

Then, finally, he looks up and meets the deep blue gaze.

Legolas’ beaming smile is lightening up the whole cottage, and Gimli finds himself unable to loosen his grip just yet.

The elf does not seem to mind, but puts his hands onto the dwarf’s shoulders, a welcome weight after so many weeks of worrying.

“ _Seeing you again lightens my heart, mellon nín_ ,” is whispered in Sindarin into his ear.

Beorn has moved on, letting his gaze travel over the thirteen snoring dwarves and one very awake hobbit (who does not seem to have seen the elf, fortunately), before making for a chair. In the meantime Legolas has carefully loosened the grip of his friend’s arms, leading the dwarf to another chair. “ _Sit_ ,” he murmurs, quietly enough to not be heard by the hobbit’s ears. “ _I have already been awaiting your arrival impatiently_ ,” he then continues, all the while smiling. “ _I am ever glad that I have not stranded in this bygone time alone. And that it is you I have travelled with, my dear friend._ ” Gimli’s heart may or may not be doing some funny things at hearing that. “ _Now, tell me: Has everything gone according to plan?_ ”

“Aye,” Gimli whispers, unable to take his eyes off the elf. (Who does not seem to mind.) “ _So far everything has come to be the way it should. I have taken care of that, no matter how hard it may have been at times. Also, as I have informed you, I have spoken to the Lady Galadriel, and she has promised to let us know of her opinion in time._ ”

“ _Is there anyone else you told?_ ”

“ _Yes, I had to tell my parents. Also, Gandalf found out, and told Elrond, who let Erestor know. Terrible gossips, those elves._ ” Legolas’ laughter, although quiet, is bright and clear, just like Gimli remembers it. It makes his heart beat hard and fast, and he feels light, almost like floating off. “ _And, quite obviously, I had to inform the Lady Galadriel of our fate. Have you told anyone?_ ”

“ _My father. He realized immediately, of course. I am not the first time-traveller he has met, and although our case has been unprecedented it was clear that I indeed have travelled through time. I have also tried to brace him for the fact that I am friends with a dwarf now. Gently, needless to say._ ” His eyes are sparkling in the pale light of the moon falling through Beorn’s high windows and the smile playing around his lips is bashful. “ _He did not react any more positively than the last time, which was to be expected. We will have to convince him again._ ”

“ _Oh, convince him I will!_ ”

“ _I have no doubt about that._ ” The elvish lips are now twitching with amusement.

“Oh, you!” Gimli grumbles, crossing his arms. He knows very well that his smile probably is as stupid as the other’s. When it comes to friendly banter there is no pair in Middle-Earth to surpass the two of them.

“ _I am glad to be united with you once more, mellon nín_ ,” Legolas murmurs. “ _Now, while you were working on your still lacking fighting skills_ ” – he ignores the indignant “Oi!” – “ _I have not been idle, either. You and Frodo have told me enough about this quest to allow me to make definite plans. I have spoken to my father and the skinchanger, as well as Tauriel, the captain of our guard. We have decided that your companions must not know about my presence as long as in any way possible. Thorin Oakenshield would not allow you to follow him knew he that you are friends with Thranduil’s son. Thus I will only stay here until the first of your fellow dwarves awakens, and then I shall leave for Mirkwood. I have come here by horse, and if I leave a few hours earlier than you I can easily make it back to my father’s palace, consult with him and Tauriel, and find you before you lose the path. At least I hope so. Either way, I will be there to lead the attack against the spiders, and arrest you._

“ _You will all be taken to the woodland realm, which should be safest considering that there is a pack of orcs on your trail. While your friends will be imprisoned, however, I will make sure that you stay free without the others knowing._

“ _We will talk to my father, then, and make further plans. We must be careful that Bilbo never gets to see us when he travels through shadow, and if he still does we must make sure to tell him the truth and let him swear an oath of secrecy before he informs Oakenshield._

“ _When the time has come you will leave with your friends per barrel, and my people will come to your aid against the orcs. My father and I will have about a day to work on our plans for the battle, while no elves will be allowed to leave our kingdom. You will stay behind in Esgaroth, then, when your company leaves for Erebor, and I will come there with Tauriel, like I did the last time. Together we can kill the yrch and maybe even help save some of the men when the dragon attacks, I think we can risk that slight of a change._

“ _This way we should be able to maintain the timeline, and at the same time we do not have to watch without being able to act. Also, we have the chance to atone for mistakes made in the past, and make plans for what we will do if Galadriel gives her consent. What do you think?_ ”

“ _That sounds mightily wise and complicated_ ,” Gimli huffs, winking. “ _I could never have come up with it. Once again it is proven that you immortal folk are far better at planning and meddling than us mortals. However, I suppose that skill is quite necessary, for you have to live with your own chaos for millennia._ ”

Chuckling softly Legolas agrees by cocking his head. “ _That we do_ ,” he consents easily, taking the half-hidden compliment for what it is. “ _Now, what do you think of it? We can make more detailed plans as soon as we are with my father, where your companions cannot find out – after we have gone through the problem of the great Lord Thranduil accepting a dwarf as a friend of his son, of course. Which should not cost us_ too _much time._ ”

Gimli raises both eyebrows. “ _Not_ too _much?_ ” he echoes, doubt clear in his voice.

The elf dismisses it, not bothered in the slightest. “ _You know my father_ ,” he says, and Gimli barely manages to keep himself from answering with “That exactly is the problem!”

“ _He will throw a tantrum, calm down, and be all for it. It was the same the last time, when we went to meet him. It was also the same when I announced that I was to accompany Frodo to Mordor. And when I chose fighting knives as my preferred weapons beside the bow. And when I wanted my first own horse. And when I refused to attend my lessons as long as that particularly stupid tutor taught them. And when I decided that I was old enough to get rid of my nursemaid. It is always the same, really, and gets boring after few hundred years._ ”

Gimli huffs. “ _If you say so…_ ”

“ _I do._ ”

“ _Then I guess I will have no choice but to believe you._ ” He grins lopsidedly. “ _Now, I have also got something for you._ ” He rises, then, and begins to take off his armour, followed by the chainmail. (Which does not happen as quietly as he would have liked. Fortunately, his companions are deep asleep and even Bilbo has given himself over into the arms or Irmo.) Legolas watches with amused disbelief; however, understanding dawns in his eyes when his friend produces a stack of parchments covered with notes.

“ _Erestor helped me_ ,” the dwarf explains. “ _I remembered which books you deemed interesting enough when you looked up the matter as we were waiting for Frodo’s recovery, and Erestor browsed through those which I did not understand._ ”

The elf’s eyes are shining. “ _I shall be reading these as soon as possible. Did you gather any new or useful information?_ ”

“ _Nothing new, but some things useful indeed_ ,” Gimli answers.

Legolas nods and skims through the first page, before stowing the precious information away.

“ _Oh, I almost forgot_ ,” the dwarf speaks up. “ _Lord Elrond has offered his help as well. He seems to be convinced that we have been sent here to change the course of history. Well,_ me _, actually. I told nobody but my parents about your presence in this time, wanting to protect you. The Lady Galadriel might have gossiped, though._ ”

It is the older one’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “ _That is good to know. It seems you have managed to get acquainted with some elves without my help this time, despite your obvious prejudices?_ ”

“ _I am called Elvellon for a reason. And elves_ are _gossips_ ,” Gimli pouts.

Again Legolas laughs, brightly and clearly. “ _Of course. What did you do to get to them, apart from being worthy of being gossiped about?_ ” His voice is teasing, but the happiness in his eyes is hard to miss.

“ _I got royally drunk with Erestor._ ”

This time the elf presses delicate fingers against his lips in order to keep from cracking up with laughter and ultimately waking the others; instead he shakes with a silent conniption. “I should have known,” he finally grins, still breathing heavily. “I am well aware of Erestor’s love for good wine.”

Gimli’s eyes are twinkling. “ _It seems ale is also to his liking._ ”

A twitching golden eyebrow. “ _Quite likely he simply wanted to best you, showing that elves can take more ale than dwarves; no matter what your people claim._ ”

“ _He had no more than two bottles of wine in the first place! And he invited me to join him!_ ”

“ _Then… maybe he needed an excuse for drinking large quantities of ale?_ ” the elf gives in, shaking his head.

Gimli agrees, snickering. “ _I find that possibility far more probable to be the truth._ ”

“Sure you do,” Legolas grins. “Now, tell me, my friend, has anything else interesting happened?”

“I could simply tell you about _everything_ that has happened,” the younger one offers. “If we are lucky we have got all night to inform each other about the past weeks.”

“Just like we did after every battle?” the elf asks, smiling fondly.

“Aye. Just like that.” There may or may not be some dangerous emotions trickling into his voice.

Legolas does not comment on that, but his eyes are shining. “Do tell me, then. I certainly want to know everything.” There it is again, that boundless elvish curiosity.

And smiling as well, Gimli tells his dear friend _everything_ , from the moment he woke up, over seeing the princes – realizing how painful this was going to be – to meeting Bilbo Baggins. He talks about how happy he was to see Gandalf again – Gandalf the Grey – and about the incident with the trolls, a story the aged Bilbo had told particularly readily. He mentions Elrond’s surprise, the rooster fight tournament, and Lindir’s exasperation, as well as Galadriel’s infinite beauty and her cocky smile when she gave him the three golden locks. Then he describes the thunder battle, the ridiculousness of Goblin Town, and the shock of finally facing Azog. Legolas knows all that, of course, has heard those tales from Frodo and Gimli himself often enough, but this first-hand account is something entirely different from adventure stories told by a campfire in order to keep the nightmares at bay.

Gimli talks about his uneasiness during flying on eagles’ back, and the way he impatiently waited for meeting Beorn. Openly he mentions his pains and fears, admitting how much he was scared for each of his companions’ lives, as well as the fellow time-traveller’s.

They know each other so incredibly well, and there are only very few secrets between them (like the way Gimli truly feels for his friend). He knows that Legolas will appreciate his openness, and – smiling – ends with how much he has missed the elf. “ _I am so used to having you at my side in any kind of fight life might throw at me_ ,” he says. “ _Marching against orcs and goblins, and getting drunk with elves – it just felt_ wrong _without you._ ”

Legolas smiles brightly. “ _You cannot imagine my relief when I received your letter_ ,” he answers. “ _I feel exactly the same way. We have gone through so many hardships together, nothing should be able to part us. Nothing but…_ ” He stops, clearly fighting for the word to leave his mouth.

“ _…death_ ,” Gimli finishes. “Do not think about me being mortal, laddie. You know my mulishness. If I wanted to come back for a nice, proper banter and drinking game not even Mandos and Mahal together would be able to keep me.”

The laugh that follows is rather jerky. “I suppose,” Legolas agrees, and quickly changes the topic.

Gimli squirms uneasily. He has not been aware of how much that bothers his elvish friend, and feels guilty for not realizing. He knows that he will look old and wrinkled when Legolas will not even have reached the prime of his life, but he has never cared. The elf will always be there for him, he does not doubt that.

What he has completely forgotten (or rather supressed) is that he will not always be able to be there for the elf.

Oh dear.

“ _Let me tell you about what has happened to me in the last weeks_ ,” his dark and guilty thoughts are suddenly interrupted.

“ _Alright_ ,” the dwarf mutters, letting himself be distracted. He will have more than enough time to think about that particular problem. However, suddenly he starts up: “ _There is something I completely forgot to mention! You are not going believe whom I met in Rivendell!_ ”

Legolas stares at his friend, curiosity plainly visible in his too-blue eyes. “ _Whom?_ ”

Gimli grins. “ _A friend dear to both of us, although much younger than the last time we saw him._ ”

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, lots of Sindarin in this chapter... hope it worked for you
> 
> (After all, it took me only three attempts to get AO3 to show it this way -.-)


	10. And the day is again full of promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **10\. And the day is again full of promise**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 8: Fog on the Barrow-Downs_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> I love Beorn.

### 10\. And the day is again full of promise

“ _Him? You are talking about a male, then – whom you stumbled upon in Imladris. That means they would have to be of my people; however, we are not dear friends with an elf young enough to be looked upon as ‘much younger’ after a leap in time of only barely eighty years._ ” The dwarf rolls his eyes at that – elves, and their conception of time. Legolas furrows his brow, the enforced wrinkles creasing up his usually perfectly smooth skin. “ _Unless…_ ” he says, slowly, beginning to understand “ _they are not of elvish blood at all. I do know a great king of men who grew up in Rivendell, under Lord Elrond’s gentle care, and it was there that he lost his heart to Arwen Undómiel…_ ” It is his turn to do the calculating. “ _… you have met ten-year-old Aragorn?_ ”

Gimli smiles fondly. “ _I did. However, he is called Estel these days._ ”

“ _I have to admit that I am very envious of you having such luck. I wish I could have seen him, too! Tell me about him, please, mellon nín._ ” In his voice Gimli hears the same longing he feels whenever he thinks about those they have left behind in the time they belong to.

“ _He was downright sweet, a darling little boy who moved and spoke as if he were one of the elves around him. When I realized who he was I could not help but approach him, and found out that young Estel is only too eager to see the world – and to meet you. I might have mentioned that I had an elvish friend who taught me his words so we may talk more easily. I promised that we would come to meet him after all this is over._ ”

Legolas smile is ever so gentle. “ _He has often told me that he was a happy child_ ,” he agrees, voice wistful. “ _I always wished that I would have met him back then, before he became a ranger and stumbled upon Mirkwood, before we made fast friends – when his heart was still filled with excitement and peace. Before he knew that he was destined to be King. I have always loved him like a brother, despite having missed those years that were the happiest of his life. I have to thank you then, my dear friend, for telling him about me and promising that we would meet._ ”

“ _How could I have acted differently? He means so much to both of us, after all that we have gone through together._ ”

“ _That he does_ ,” the elf agrees, his eyes revealing that he is caught in distant memories of a faraway time. Shaking his head he visibly returns to the present. “ _Now, shall I tell you about what has happened to me since we were parted?_ ”

“ _I may not be of elvish blood, yet I_ am _rather curious_ ,” the dwarf winks. “Come on now, laddie. Let me know.”

“ _It is not elvish curiosity that is plaguing you, my dear friend, but dwarvish impatience._ ” Twinkling blue orbs divulge how much the older of the two friends enjoys this banter the kind of which both of them have missed dearly. An amused smile playing around his fair lips he begins to recount: “ _I was not woken by my family, like you were, but woke up all by myself, alone in the suite that has been mine for centuries. It took me hours to figure out what had come to pass – I have to admit that, in the beginning, I was convinced my father had commanded to have me abducted in order to keep me away from you, wary as he was of our friendship. I remembered falling asleep with you and suspected that we had been ambushed by my kin, and that I had forcibly been returned to my father’s halls, unconscious. I worried for you, and was all but ready to hit Ada over the head with whatever blunt item I might find when I realized that my door was not at all locked, like I had assumed._

“ _I made straight for where I suspected my father to be, then, still ready to put all blame on him. I burst in on a rather important conference, not caring what I might be interrupting – and caused quite a ruckus, I have to admit. At first, Ada and I were both confused. However, we realized at the same time, I think. We were staring at each other, both ready to release a tirade – he about to reprimand me, and me wanting to accuse him for taking me away from you – when I_ saw _it. Maybe you would not have been able to tell the difference, for neither of us has aged visibly in those eighty years. However, the look in his eyes was vastly different, and I suppose the one in mine was too._ ”

He would have seen it, Gimli thinks. He would always be able to tell the difference between _his_ elf and the one Legolas had been before.

“ _Ada threw out all his advisors then, rather unceremonially I might add, and told me to sit with him. He did not hesitate to ask me what time I had come from – he had seen other time-travellers before me; however, none that had been sent back the same way we were. Of course not, both of us know that our case has been unprecedented._ ” His eyes fall upon where he has tucked away Gimli’s research. “ _Also, he immediately knew that I had seen war. Apparently he is already suspecting that something is stirring in the east, despite acting like it was of no concern for us. In fact I gave him quite an earful for that…_ ” The tips of his pointed ears are blushing. “ _Anyway. It was hard to keep details of the War of the Ring from him, but in the end he surrendered, aware of how much risk our knowledge of the future entails. He asked if I had come alone, and it was then that I began to realize what that would mean. I did not dare to contact you, afraid of what might happen if you were not the Gimli I knew, but one eighty years younger._

“ _Convinced that if anyone had travelled through time with me it would be you, I did not try to make contact with Gandalf or Aragorn either; however, not being able to do anything took its toll._

“ _We did not make many plans after that, for I was too shaken, and he did not know enough. I spent the next days recalling what had happened when these events had come upon me the last time, and felt certain that, if you were here, you would be accompanying Thorin Oakenshield to his mountain, quickly having realized that his quest for Erebor was about to take place. Should you go along would mean that we could easily meet, for you would be coming to Mirkwood. It made my heart lighter, and at the same time heavier, for I did not know whether you would be arriving with him or not._

“ _When I received your letter I was…_ very _relieved. Truth be told, I may have acted a bit foolishly, and it took my father no more than a few seconds to understand that I had not come alone, and that my companion meant much to me. He asked about you, then, and I was torn. However, I have never been able to lie to him. Knowing that he would find out either way, I finally made my decision and took delight in telling him that I was friends with a dwarf now, and that he would have to accept it. That he had actually accepted it already, in a faraway future, and that I was prepared to do whatever necessary in order to be reunited with you – the only person I knew in this time where I did not belong. He took it better than I had expected, which, as I have to admit, does not mean much._ ”

Gimli cannot help but snort at that.

Legolas quirks an eyebrow, clearly amused, and continues: “ _I was in much better a condition, then, and told him that he was going to meet you within a few weeks’ time, when you would be arriving with a small company of other dwarves. Unfortunately he connected the dots rather quickly, and realized that Oakenshield was going to come for Erebor. It took me more than a day to calm him down again, to stop his wrath. My father is a proud and stubborn person, cold even, and not the king all of my people had hoped him to be. However, he cares for them, deeply, for every single elf – and he has never risked their lives if not absolutely necessary. The thought alone that Thorin Oakenshield was about to waken that dragon who has been blissfully asleep for so many years angered him greatly, for he has seen dragon fire, and the way it burns everything to ashes._

“ _I told you this, mellon nín, to make you understand why he feels that way, should he say one or another thing… rude when you meet. The arrival of your second message was very well timed, it distracted him from his silly thoughts of revenge – he sure knows how to hold a grudge – and we finally began to make some plans. Both of us knew that going along with history, trying to keep everything the way it happened the last time, was the best we could do until we were told differently. I told him everything I remembered that had come to be the last time, and we began to make sure that those events that would not unfold on their own would be forced to happen. We decided to tell Tauriel, then, that I had come from the future, and that she was to listen to all my orders even if they should seem strange without questioning them, for she is the captain of my father’s guard and able to help us a great deal. We told her nothing more, since I insisted that we consult with you before letting any others know about what will be happening. However, I also informed the skinchanger about some details, so that he would let me and my horse wait with him for the day you would arrive. We agreed that during day I would hide on the roof when I saw you come and not show myself until he returned to his human body; while at night we would go on patrol together._

“ _Those weeks of waiting were long and dragged on, and every night I hoped to find you when the two of us returned from keeping guard, fighting off the many stray orcs that are crawling through these lands. I certainly regretted telling you not to stay in contact, despite knowing that it was best_ ,” he finally ends, one of his delicate hands finding Gimli’s calloused one and treading their fingers together.

The dwarf’s heart leaps in his chest, and he feels a deep blush creep up his (fortunately) bearded cheeks.

The elf smiles genuinely, and then turns his head towards one of the huge windows. “Dawn is rising. Soon your companions will be up and about, and I have agreed with Beorn that he will send you off as soon as you are properly fed, strengthened for the perils and hardships that are still awaiting you. If your company does not manage to disgruntle him completely he will give you some of his ponies upon condition that you let them free before entering Mirkwood, and grant for your safety. In the meantime, my horse is elvish and rested. I can ride harder than you, and if I leave now I will be able to alert my father to your upcoming arrival, ensure that Tauriel and a squad of guards are prepared to fight off the spiders with me, and maybe even make it back to the elven gate before you reach it.”

He seems to be as reluctant to leave as Gimli is to let him go; however, the dwarf knows that his friend is right. Thus he rises and puts his hand onto his still seated friend’s shoulder in the traditional elvish way. “ _Take care of yourself, mellon nín_ ,” he says sincerely. “ _I know that you can hold your own, but there are still orcs out there who would love to feast on your skinny frame. Please do not abandon your own safety for the sake of speed. I could never forgive myself were you injured when I could have been there to help you._ ”

That his friend does not give a biting retort about being able to look after himself tells Gimli that the elf has understood what he has wanted to say.

“ _Then I must ask of you to be careful as well. Do not think you are safe just because your companions lived the last time._ ”

The request is as serious and as well meant as his own, so the dwarf smiles a shaky smile and releases the other one’s shoulder from his grip. “ _I shall be looking out for you when we reach that forsaken forest_ ,” he says, trying to tease and reassure his friend at the same time. “ _I can scarcely wait to meet your father… once again._ ”

Legolas laughs at that, bright pearls that ripple through the silent air, and when the last echo of the melodic sound has faded Gimli is sitting at the table alone, nothing left to prove that the elf has really been here, nothing but a sweet memory.

Beorn rises from where he has sat for all the night, then, having held a vigil, and stands next to the dwarf.

“I have to admit that I had never imagined dwarves to be able to talk that quietly. Or to make an elf laugh honestly,” he remarks, his voice dry and amused. “Your friend is very wise, Gimli Glóin’s son, and you have my help in whatever way you may need. You are different from your kin. I will see to it that you reach the forest safely, and if you require assistance with what comes afterwards – please let me know, and I shall go to your aid. Azog the defiler has long been an enemy of mine, and I would do anything to see him bleed.”

“Thank you,” Gimli offers, sincerely, his eyes on the iron manacle. “I greatly appreciate your help. Also, let me tell you that there will be… a battle; for the Lonely Mountain. I could never ask of you to fight alongside dwarves, for you surely owe us nothing and the fortunes of Erebor are not of your concern. However, if you should really want to take revenge on the one who enslaved you so many years ago – this would be your opportunity. If not – I will understand either decision, for I have taken vengeance and I have forfeited it.”

The skinchanger really looks at him, then, for the first time. Dark, wild eyes pierce into his own, appearing to stare into his very soul. “You are not like other dwarves I have met,” Beorn acknowledges, again, a tiny smile playing around his lips. “I begin to see how you have come to call an elf your dearest friend. Expect me to fight alongside you and Legolas Greenleaf, for upon your shoulders lies the fate of this world. However, I would ask you to tell me about the time you have come from when all is said and done. I do like good stories.”

Gimli smiles. “A good story it is indeed, although not one to be told young children before bedtime. It will be a small price for your help.”

“I can hardly wait to hear it,” Beorn admits, before averting his eyes again, looking east. “Your companions will waken soon. I will act as if this conversation has never taken place, like your elf asked me to. I shall meet you again in battle, then, and anticipate hearing what cards fate has had up its sleeve for you.”

After that is said the giant man makes for the door, moving more quietly than one could expect of the huge feet. “My friends will be preparing breakfast now. You should let yours sleep as long as they will, a hard time is awaiting you. Nobody should go to meet Thranduil of the woodland realm without a good night’s sleep and a proper breakfast.” With that he vanishes out into the dawn, and leaves it to Gimli not to wake his companions with the loud barking laughter that is threatening to spill from his lips.

The dwarf spends a few more minutes sitting at the huge table, and now it bothers him less than it did before that the elf has already left again. They have a plan, after all, and he is going to see the other before night falls.

What more could he ask for?

Well.

Peace and quiet maybe, for that is unthinkable when first Dwalin, and shortly after Fíli and Kíli awaken, followed by Nori and Bofur. The latter immediately takes up his usual chatter, and Gimli is not sure whether to be annoyed or smile fondly at his companion. One by one he watches them gather around the huge table, Bombur being the last of the dwarves who opens his eyes the very moment the smell of freshly made bread fills the fresh morning air breezing in through a now open window.

Not much later Bilbo wakes up as well, and Beorn, with the help of two of his sheep friends, serves them a strictly meet-less but still very satiating breakfast. The cups into which he pours fresh milk are almost as long as the dwarves’ arms; however, neither of them complains. They are far too relieved to get a proper meal again (and also far too wary of their huge host).

Gimli tucks in, enjoying the skinchanger’s hospitality, and watches fondly as his companions try to display their best manners. Certainly the elves would still be appalled, but Beorn does not mind their ways.

The time-traveller lays his eyes upon each of his friends and thinks about how much better he has gotten to know them in those past few weeks they have lived and fought at each other’s sides. He looks at Thorin, whose kingly qualities he has finally come to appreciate, behind whose mask he sees and understands more with every day, who reminds him so much of Aragorn. The two kings without a throne he would follow everywhere (even to banter with the dead, he thinks fondly) are not all that unalike.

Fíli and Kíli are sitting close to Thorin, like always, torn between thinking of him as their leader and their uncle. The latter is becoming more and more difficult; however, they are stubborn lads, and their love for the one who has brought them up like a father is pure and unconditional. They are a little subdued at the moment, in the face of Beorn’s enormity and the memory of his bear form, but their usual liveliness and mischief is just waiting around the corner.

Then there are Balin and Dwalin, both loyal beyond all measures. They could not be any more different – a scholar who has been forced to fight, and a warrior who has been forced to act as a diplomat – and yet they are as close as brothers can be. Seeing Balin every day, the way he had remembered him before leaving for Moria with Ori and Óin, all old and wise but still a force to be reckoned with, and that gentle smile almost attached to his lips; that has eased the ache in Gimli’s heart that had taken residence there the moment he had come upon his dear uncle’s tomb in the depths of Khazad-dûm.

Dori, as always, has a close eye on both his brothers. The time-traveller had known them before this quest, of course, with the company always having stayed close in his timeline. Now, however, he is getting to know them on a much more personal level, and he is enjoying every second of it. Ori is a sweet, gentle soul, not made of fighting material, but still ready to die for this quest. All of this company have gone through hard times, but especially those three brothers. There is a reason Nori has learned a rather unsavoury trade, and Dori always keeps an eye on his youngest brother. They love each other dearly, and it is hope for a better life that has brought them onto this quest. And while Dori might fear for his brothers’ lives all the time he also sees the changes in them, and appreciates them greatly.

Bifur is not that easy to get to know; however, Gimli has taken it upon himself to bond with that dwarf as well. A survivor of Azanulbizar, but scarred for life, he does not ask inconvenient questions and is happy with the simple things in life; and a pleasant discussion partner. Bofur and Bombur are easy to get along with, too, and the time traveller has spent many a walking hour talking to either of them.

Then there is Óin, his uncle. The one whose death had not nearly affected him as much as Balin’s which he now regrets very much. For a young child the healer is not easy to get to know; however, Gimli is a seasoned warriors himself now, and readily deals with the older one’s mostly gruff mood, for he has found the – cliché – soft core underneath the hard shell.

The last one he looks upon, listening to Beorn’s tale with half an ear, is his own father. Both of them are so very proud of each other, and Gimli spends many hours in the barely older one’s presence, enjoying the knowledge that he does not need to keep his identity secret from him; all the while remembering the heartfelt words his parents had spoken that morning when he had woken up in a wrong time: _“You will always be our son.”_

The smile trickles from his lips when he hears Beorn say that he is the only one of his kin left, and when the skinchanger looks directly at him he sees it in the giant man’s eyes – that he _is_ going to take revenge for what wrongs have been done to him and his family.

Beorn then states that they have not much time left and Gandalf when mentions that they are planning on taking the elf path through Mirkwood, Thorin’s features darkening visibly. Obviously the wizard did not inform him of this plan.

The only one to see the twinkle in the skinchanger’s eyes Gimli listens as he warns them: “The elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They are less wise, and more dangerous.” Absent-mindedly he registers that the man continues, while his thoughts turn to Legolas like they always tend to do. He knows that his friend would not be upset about this statement, for both of them know it to be true. Thranduil’s family has always acted on heart rather than reason, like Galadriel and Elrond are known to do. However, that does not mean that the woodelves and their royal family are daft or ignorant. They simply live a different life, underneath a huge forest full of perils and with the stars so far away.

Gimli tunes back in when Beorn tells his companions that he likes orcs even less than dwarves, and asks them for what they need.

Of course Gandalf is quick to request ponies for the dangerous journey to Mirkwood, animals Beorn loves like children, and both the time traveller and the skinchanger know that everything will come to be the way it should. Neither of them misses the way the wizard squints his eyes at their silent interaction; however, neither of them cares. Gandalf will leave the company alone before they enter the forest, and Gimli tries not to think about the way his father had sounded _betrayed_ when he had told his family about that particular event.

Soon they are off, heading towards the dark wood looming in the distance, and Gimli feels his heart lighten up with each mile they draw closer. He does not look forward to entering that dark shadow, not at all, but he knows that Legolas will be there, waiting for him, and with the elf at his side he can take anything.

 

_TBC_


	11. Earth, air and water all seem accursed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **11\. Earth, air and water all seem accursed**
> 
> _(The Lord Of The Rings: Two Towers – Chapter 8: The Stairs of Cirith Ungol)_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> This is more of a filler, really.  
> Sorry for that.

### 11\. Earth, air and water all seem accursed

They reach the forest edge when noon has already passed and thick clouds are hanging in the sky.

Dwalin looks around, as always trying to secure the area, and grumbles: “No sign of the orcs. We have outrun them.”

Gimli stares at Gandalf, then, and sees the fight going on behind the wise blue eyes. The wizard never wants to discourage them, always trying to keep their spirits up, and yet – Gimli thinks he should tell them the truth. They are not a group of children who should be spared the fear, for not knowing can easily cost them their lives. And no matter how much the time-traveller loves the wizard, his accusations run deeply. The Grey Pilgrim always just assumes that he knows best, and makes decision that should not be his to make, for the fortunes of this world are quite often bound to those decisions. It is not Gandalf’s place to judge what is best for Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins and Gimli Glóin’s son. (Or for Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Frodo Baggins.)

The wizard, of course, chooses to say nothing on the matter.

He demounts his horse and steps across the border of the wood without hesitation, leaving the dwarves to free the ponies and prepare themselves for a long stay underneath wide, dark tree crowns; cut off from the sun in a way so different from under a mountain. Looking out Gimli sees the shape of a huge bear in the distance, and hears the promise ring in his ears: _I will see to it that you reach the forest safely_.

That he did, the time traveller thinks, smiling, and suddenly feels bad for the way he has thought about Gandalf, for is he not doing exactly the same? He does not share information with his companions that might save their lives either; however, he has a very good reason. After all, he does not know whether big changes will destroy everything they know. (He then thinks that, maybe, the wizard has similarly good reasons. After all, who knows whatever those Istari know? He is still annoyed, though, despite the fact that he loves the old coot, his dear companion. No matter what he does.)

Nori is just about to let Gandalf’s horse run free when said wizard comes marching back out of the forest, announcing that he is going to leave them alone.

In elvish territory neither of them has ever set foot on.

What a sensible person he is.

Shaking his head Gimli watches as the Grey Pilgrim tells Bilbo how much he has changed and cannot help but think that _all_ of them have changed, and that all of them have found a family with this company. The hobbit then announces that he has found something in the goblin tunnels, and the time traveller’s eyes are drawn to the waistcoat pocket that he knows contains the One Ring, Bilbo’s fingers playing unconsciously with it the same way Frodo’s had done so often. When the hobbit does not answer immediately the wizard is growing all unhappy and suspicious; however, then their burglar smiles and says: “My courage.”

For a brief moment Gandalf’s mouth is drawn to a thin, weary line; like always when he feels as if the weight of the world is resting upon his shoulders. Then he raises his eyebrows, mutters “Good. You’ll need it.” and marches off towards where his horse is waiting. He tells them where to meet, emphasizing that they are not to enter Erebor without him; and then he is off, a last warning not to stray from the path shouted into their direction.

Gimli is almost shaking, he is so incredibly angry, wants to tear his hair out and curse and _oh this meddling old coot!_ (He still adores him. Annoying wizard.)

He chokes back the anger, though, and follows Thorin into that forsaken forest that he would not dare enter were it not for the promise of the elf’s presence, and the knowledge that they will make it to safety. Fondly and with trepidation at the same time he remembers how Legolas and him had returned to Fangorn after Aragorn’s coronation, visiting the surviving ents and the elf telling his dwarvish friend why exactly the forest was so beautiful. Gimli had tried very hard to understand, to see the beauty Legolas had wanted to show him, and maybe he had even gotten a glimpse of it. All the while he had been wary, though, never able to forget how those trees had made short shrift of the orcs that had precipitately fled the battlefield of Helm’s Deep upon the rising sun and Eomer’s arrival. Never had he forgotten that those trees were _living creatures_ , even more so than any other plant.

However, he would gladly visit Fangorn a thousand times before stepping into a forest that heavy with illusions, and which he knows to house enormous spiders who would greatly enjoy dwarf on their menu.

Were it not for Legolas’ presence…

Realizing that he is repeating himself he concentrates on looking around instead. That there is a wicked spell upon this wood does not mean that the trees are not living, thinking and feeling like those of Fangorn, and he tries to understand how the woodelves can be happy with living here (knowing that they are _not_ , that they have been driven further and further northward, that they are now persevering beneath the Emyn Fuin instead of wandering underneath starlight.) His eyes dart around, hoping for even the slightest glimpse of golden hair between the dull, heavy leaves and branches. Sometimes he believes to hear something, a short intake of breath just next to him or some muttered elven curses; however, when he tries to listen more closely he finds that his companions are far too loud, and that he himself is far too weary.

The dark magic aggrieving this once so beautiful forest is taking its toll on each of his companions as well as him. Knowing that they will make it out alive does not make it any easier to keep walking forward when staring at his feet shows him an illusion of them walking backwards; or to ignore the fact that all those trees look _exactly the same_.

Suddenly Nori, who has been leading the company, stops and all of them follow his example; fear, confusion and weariness etched into everyone’s features. Somewhere, deep down, Gimli registers the sick expression on his king’s face, and the faraway look in his father’s eyes. Somehow he is aware that he looks just the same, but he cannot grasp it, cannot grasp _anything_ , really, not even the image of a beautiful elf dancing through his mind, fleeting like smoke.

“We have lost the path,” Nori mutters, voice rolling through the heavy air like water across stone plains, slow but unstoppable.

For a few shocked seconds nobody moves, no one even dares to breathe.

Then Thorin, on the verge of panicking, orders them to spread out and look for the path, to walk back the way they have come, to find it, because it _has_ to be _somewhere_ , no matter what Gandalf said. At the same time he tells them to stay in contact with each other under all circumstances, never to venture out of eyeshot, and asks for status reports from every single dwarf every few minutes. Gimli slowly admires the way he stays as calm and collected as possible in a situation like this one, coordinating their weary attempts to find the path.

However, no matter how well Thorin’s ideas would have worked in a forest other than this one – the path is lost.

For all they know they might be staring right at it, hidden beneath layers upon layers of illusions.

Gimli sits down heavily, next to Bilbo, and tries to get a hold of those thoughts at the back of his mind that are telling about a promise from an elf who has never let him down, and about knowledge from a faraway time. He feels them tickle his consciousness, but they escape whenever he reaches out for them and what in Mahal’s name…

Bilbo, his mind caught elsewhere just like everyone’s, tugs at a thread of spider silk and – with wide, clouded eyes – watches as the movement travels along more and more threads and webs that are stretching everywhere around them.

Suddenly there is a quiet but so very melodious voice cutting through the heavy air, a Sindarin curse reaching none but Gimli’s ears: “ _Fool of a Took!_ ”

The voice as well as the sentence stirs something in his mind, along with the fine fingers that are suddenly winding themselves around his arm. Fingers of which he cannot see the owner. For a moment he sluggishly wonders whether he should freak out, before he hears the voice again, breezing across the shell of his ear along with a sweet breath. “ _I did not expect the spells upon this forest to affect you to such an extent, mellon nín. Forgive me._ ” And then there is an elf standing in front of the dwarf, tall and slender and beautiful and so very familiar, an elf who has not been there the moment before, who has appeared just like that.

Gimli’s eyes widen when reality comes rushing back in.

Suddenly the illusions are being washed away, leaving behind a clearness so bright that it almost hurts in his mind.

“Legolas!” he breathes, trying to be as quiet as possible; relief clearly evident in his voice.

The elf smiles at him, an apology lining his fair features. Gimli does not realize how his friends are beginning to argue or how Thorin yells at them, whispering that they are being watched. Only at the back of his mind does he register that Bilbo sets about climbing one of the trees, for his eyes and all of his attention are trained on the elf, now that he can finally see him.

“ _I have been with you since you have strayed from the path, like I promised; however, I found it wiser not to show myself_ ,” the elf whispers, his eyes darting into every direction while his fine ears already pick up the sound of new enemies approaching from afar. “ _Now, I shall let the spiders attack and do nothing but observe unless the need to save one of your lives arises. Tauriel and some of the guards are on their way, they will arrive in time to kill off the beasts with me. We will be able to talk freely once we have reached my father’s halls._ ” With that he vanishes just like he did at Beorn’s house, climbing up and jumping from branch to branch with a swiftness too fast for Gimli’s still slightly shocked mind; without any of the others ever having realized that he was there.

The time traveller shakes his head then, and tries to make out what his company has been doing in the meantime, only to find them staring up, towards where Bilbo – who seems to be less affected by the illusions and poison of the mind than the dwarves – has vanished between wood and leaf. Confused gazes are straying across the forest canopy and the sheer infinite amounts of cobwebs, and no one reacts quickly enough when suddenly a multitude of eyes is staring right at them.

No one but Gimli.

The time traveller, released from the spell by his elf’s arrival, draws his ax before he roars the battlecry which the orcs and uruks of his time have come to fear, desperately hoping to tear his friends from their stupor – “Khazad aî-menu!” – and charges.

However, he is not fast enough.

The spiders – obviously realizing that he is the most dangerous of the possible prey – immediately attack him; seven of them at the same time. He kills one by letting the blade of his ax rush towards the floor in a straight line, the bit drawing through the cephalothorax of the first arachnoid. Roaring, he spins around and the blunt side of his weapon crushes into the shell of the next; before the sharp edge cuts through the chelicerae of the third. He then makes use of the fact that his broad labrys can be taken apart and now fights with two single bit axes, one in each hand – like he did so often in the War of the Ring. One of the bits he buries in an enormous cephalothorax, while moving the other in order to hurt, not kill. Three spiders forfeit at least one leg each due to this and retreat, flinching with pain.

However, more and more of the beasts keep coming.

Whenever he hurts or kills one two seem to take its place and he does not realize that they are driving him into a corner until it is too late.

He takes a lunge backwards in order to hold his balance and suddenly finds himself trapped in a sticky spider web located behind him, which makes any more attack or defence movements (or attempts to free himself) impossible. More quickly than he would have thought possible he is being rolled and rolled and _rolled_ until he cannot move even the slightest bit, and helplessly has to endure being dragged around, and hung to a branch. Upside down.

Taking in as much of his surroundings as possible without being able to turn his head, and with sticky threads of white spider silk running across his vision he watches as his companions are being put next to him, misshapen lumps wrapped up in cobwebs.

Awesome.

Somehow he has forgotten about that part when agreeing to let Legolas meet them with the other elves, to save them from the attacking spiders. _After_ Bilbo would have freed them.

As if he had heard his thoughts the hobbit chooses this exact moment to call out for the dwarves, his voice growing louder and more desperate with every time they do not answer. Gimli just wishes he had the common sense to be quiet.

Fortunately, the spiders do not seem to have heard the fifteenth humanoid (and possible snack) in this part of Mirkwood, and happily continue with putting dwarves into trees, all wrapped up nicely… really, he is convinced that the elf is hiding somewhere in the greenery, watching safely hidden underneath the illusions, and laughing his royal behind off. Why do things like these always happen to him, instead of Legolas? (For a short moment he thinks that he should really try his best to get along with Thranduil, if only to hear some embarrassing stories about the elf prince’s childhood.)

Suddenly the spiders let up on them, distracted by something – or some _one_ – and for a few minutes nothing is heard but Glóin struggling with one of the beasts that has stayed back.

Then there is a terribly screech and a short commotion, which ends with the sound of a body falling and hitting the ground.

Gimli looks around wildly until his gaze falls upon Bilbo who eyes his letter opener with a somewhat satisfied expression, muttering about naming it Sting, before scampering over to where the dwarves are dangling from the branches and beginning to cut them loose.

The time traveller feels himself being lowered to the floor almost gently, the webs – quite ironically – breaking his fall. When he lies he feels the threads give in, the structure of his prison broken now that Bilbo has cut an end off, and immediately he begins to wriggle and tear at the sticky silk, knowing that the spiders are still close, are still _dangerous_.

His companions free themselves as well, the spell that had slowed their minds lifted, and they rise hastily, weapons in hand, ready to defend themselves against the beasts that took them capture. The beasts they would already have fallen prey to had it not been for the courage and quick thinking on the part of their burglar. They try to run, then, and Gimli thinks that they are fools, that they should stay together-

They hear the clicking and hissing of the spiders returning for their lost meal; and now the company quickly forms a circle, swords and axes facing outward awaiting an attack of a sheer infinite number of dark creatures in a cursed forest.

Gimli would prefer marching through Fangorn again over this a thousand times.

Fortunately, they do not have to wait for long. (The quiet before the storm is always what he can stand least.)

Suddenly the spawn of Dol Guldur comes upon them like a flood, biting and stinging and snatching, rage glistening in the many eyes and hunger spurring insanity on. Gimli does not hesitate to attack, but lets his ax crash into the first cephalothorax. The sound of the shell being crushed a satisfying confirmation in the background he cuts through three legs with one strike, not even taking the time to watch as Balin finishes the beast off. He has already whipped around, taken his axes apart and is using one to keep two spiders at distance while he slices through the eyes of a third, the blade burying itself in a small brain. Absent-mindedly he realizes the way his victim twitches for the last time, too occupied with drawing the now free ax from ground level upwards in a straight line, cutting right through the next cephalothorax, the sharp blade easily tearing the thick shell apart.

From the corners of his eyes he watches as some of his companions help Bombur, while he kicks at another spider, buries a small knife in a black eye and then puts his axes back together, thrusting the single weapon straight forward and bashing in another shell with the sheer force of his attack. Next to him Dwalin is fighting off one of the beasts with his bare hands and Gimli is quick to rush to his aid, the bit of his ax piercing into the hindquarters of his enemy. He turns around then, running to help Ori, before once again taking up with three of the beasts at the same time, fighting with two axes once more. “Eight,” he mutters, breathing heavily, as he cuts the next chelicerae off only to draw his axes through two shells at the same time. Knowing that if he wants to beat the elf he has to get a move on he kills number eleven helping Bofur, and twelve falls prey to a thrown axe.

The thirteenth spider he cannot count, for Thorin is the one who finishes it off after Gimli has hit it with the blunt side of his axe, knocking it out.

Suddenly it is eerily silent.

His companions urge on then, trying to run, and Gimli thinks that this is foolish, that they should stay together, that more of the beasts will come, and anyway, have they forgotten about their burglar? Before he can mention any of that, though, all of the dwarves whip around at the sound of another spider approaching.

The time traveller has already raised his axe, ready to fight once more, when he _feels_ it.

He knows that the elves are arriving before he sees them, realizing that the bond between him and Legolas is strengthening despite being one of friendship and nothing more when all of his world narrows to the sight of his fellow and beloved jumping from a branch, easily sliding down one of the silk threads and landing on the attacking spider, knocking it right out. He slides forward – oh, the memories! – and comes to stand exactly in front of Thorin. Only moments have passed when he is staring at the regal dwarf, an arrow nocked and ready to be shot.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly coming closer to meeting Thranduil! Yihaa :D


	12. Fragments of tales and half-remembered stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **12\. Fragments of tales and half-remembered stories**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 2: The Shadow of the Past_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Ahh.  
> Gimli surprising elves.  
> I love it :D

### 12\. Fragments of tales and half-remembered stories

“Do not think I will not kill you, dwarf,” Legolas threatens, eyes twinkling for no one but Gimli to see. “It would be my pleasure.” The time traveller thinks about _we could have shot him in the dark_ , very well aware of how unpleasant it is to have an elven arrow pointing right at your face. Still, for him this situation is decidedly amusing.

Fighting the grin threatening to break free he pricks up his ears when he sees Legolas’ twitching, catching a panicked voice calling “Throw me a dagger, quick!”

Easily he recognizes it as Kíli’s.

A tiny smile around Legolas’ lips makes him relax, the tension melting out of his body that has already prepared to fight again within a moment’s notice. There is no one in this world he trusts more than this elf, not even Aragorn or his own mother. Calmer than any of his companions he listens to “If you think I am giving you a weapon, dwarf, you are mistaken!”; a clearly female elf saving his princeling friend with the ease of centuries spent fighting.

Legolas darts his friend an amused glance, before ordering his guards to search the dwarves.

Mirth is dancing in his blue eyes as he watches one of the elves relief Fíli of more and more of his weapons, and he himself chooses to dig into Glóin’s pockets. Easily he finds the locket dangling from a heavy chain around his neck and takes it despite his friend’s father’s obvious love for it. He opens it and in the same breath insults Gimli’s mother, just like the last time, before staring at the portrait of Gimli himself. “And what is that horrid creature, goblin-mutant?” To the time-traveller’s well experienced eyes he looks like he is about to fall to the floor, rolling with laughter. To everyone else his features are nothing but sceptical, brow raised in that very picturesque way of his.

Glóin gasps for air and barely manages to keep himself from launching into an angry rant; however, he cannot keep himself from darting his son a short glance. Hoping that no one but his elf has seen it – the wizard being off and away – Gimli does his best to look as if he is trying not to let his outrage show. He is not sure whether he is convincing, and soon is distracted anyway: The moment Legolas lays his eyes upon Orcrist, fingers carefully touching the old sword filled with history, his face lightens up and Gimli’s breath catches. Despite having been in this situation before, many years ago, the elf is filled with awe for his people’s skills. The dwarvish time-traveller watches him, fondly remembering the moments he had gotten to see Legolas’ love and fascination for the elves of times long gone by.

He barely registers as his friend happily accuses Thorin of being a liar and a thief – the dwarvish leader bristling along with his oldest companions – before ordering for the intruders to be bound and led away.

Easily he manages to have Gimli positioned at the end of the procession, where he himself will be walking, and then motions for the guards in the front to get going.

As they begin to move Bofur asks Thorin in passing: “Where’s Bilbo?”

Gimli can almost watch his King’s face fall, and fear settle in his eyes.

He does not have the chance to observe him any further, though, for the company is being led away and the time-traveller feels the bright presence of his elf draw closer with every step until the other is walking only inches behind him; the red-haired elf who saved Kíli next to him, bow still ready to shoot.

“ _So this is the naug who came with you_ ,” he hears her mutter, and grins.

“ _You must be Tauriel, then, captain of the guard_ ,” he murmurs, making sure not to be heard by his fellow dwarves, but well aware that the fine elvish ears behind him will catch it without any problems. Since four of his companions are walking between him and the closest elvish guard, and more between the others, he is quite sure that they will not be able to overhear this conversation, not with the other dwarves making such a ruckus.

He hears the surprised sound coming from the red-haired woodelf – whether because of having been identified or because of the easiness the heavily accented Sindarin has dropped from his lips he does not know – and snickers.

“ _She is_ ,” Legolas confirms, the bell-like voice betraying his amusement.

“ _I did not expect you to speak my tongue, naug. However, my prince has mentioned that you are called Elvellon. I should not have been surprised._ ”

“ _I generally tend to surprise your kind. You should have seen the way Lord Elrond looked at me when I greeted him in Sindarin, or how quick Erestor was to help me with a research project after I addressed him with your words._ ”

This time it is Legolas who snickers.

“ _I am beginning to see_ why _you received that name_ ,” Tauriel mutters.

Gimli marches on happily, not daring to turn around but not about to let that keep him from teasing the captain of Thranduil’s guard. “ _I am being told that alarmingly often recently. Should I be worried about acting too nicely?_ ”

Legolas snorts quietly. “ _It only proves what I have known all along._ ”

The dwarf squints his eyes. “ _Which would be?_ ”

“ _That you are quite a lovely person, mellon nín, and nothing like the beastly pain in the neck you like to portray – quite convincingly as I have to admit._ ”

Gimli gasps for air, but manages to retort: “ _All along? I quite vividly remember the way you used to look at me, after we met in Imladris. How you always had a snide remark up your sleeve; many an insult for my people and my kin. Had I not been that convinced that the opinion of a weed-eater and tree-shagger mattered nothing to me, I would have been quite hurt. You even made Estel doubt your common sense._ ”

“ _Well,_ you _were the one who shouted that no one was to trust an elf in a council made up mostly of elves_ ,” is the immediate answer. “ _And you were always quick to trade insults with me._ ”

The dwarf remembers that very scene and smiles fondly when he thinks of other moments as well. “ _I would never dare deny that_ ,” he grins, and adds: “ _However, I do also recall the way you always made sure that I was still with you when we were tracking Merry and Pippin, how you tried to encourage me. I remember_ You would die before your stroke fell _and_ side by side with a friend _and_ You shall never be alone, Gimli Glóin’s son _. You have always been good with your words, elf, and I have often appreciated them greatly, just like I have detested them at times._ ”

Legolas’ laughter is like sunrise after a night of darkness. “ _None of those words you mentioned I have said in jest, mellon nín._ ”

“ _I know._ ” Gimli’s answer, as easy as it is, means a lot.

“ _Elvellon_ ,” Tauriel remarks, her melodic voice caught somewhere between amused and touched.

The dwarf laughs quietly. “ _Indeed_ ,” he agrees. “ _I do have earned that name. After all, I went through the struggle of taming this wild princeling. It took quite an effort, really. However, it was clearly worth it._ ” Probably he is giving more away than he should once again. It has never been easy to keep his guard up in Legolas’ presence, though, and – frankly – he does not even want to.

“ _I am looking forward to my king’s reaction_ ,” Tauriel snickers.

Gimli snorts. “ _He will come to like me, whether he wants to or not. He did the last time._ ”

“ _Oh, you think he_ liked _you? He barely_ tolerated _your presence!_ ” Legolas corrects him.

Rolling his eyes the dwarf turns his head around for a moment. “Details. Besides, who would not like me?” he asks, grinning cheekily. “ _By the way – how many?_ ”

“ _Spiders?_ ” the blonde responds immediately, eyes glistening, as eager to compare scores as his younger friend.

“Aye, spiders.”

“ _Eleven when coming to your aid_ ,” Legolas answers, a confident smile on his lips. “ _How about you, Master Dwarf?_ ”

Gimli feels the sweet thrill of victory run through his veins. “ _I counted five before and twelve after the spiders turned me into a bundle, and it would have been one more had you given me the chance. Still, I have beaten you, like I promised._ ”

The elf snorts. “ _That was nothing but luck. Had I not released you from the spell, you would have fallen prey to those very beasts._ ”

“ _Wrong, my dear. You did not help my companions, and still they were able to fight after Bilbo freed us. You will have to accept it, I fought better than you. I could have taken those spiders alone had need been. However, I have to admit that fighting with you feels better than alone. I like having someone around I can show how things are done._ ” Enough with the heartfelt conversations, this is as much of a compliment as Legolas will receive now.

Again Gimli turns his head just in time to see his friend’s raised eyebrow make way for a soft smile. Then his gaze falls upon-

“ _That, elf, is not the bow you used to wield in this time! We have taken clothing with us when we were sent here, but not weapons!_ ”

Legolas’ fingers automatically reach up to touch the wood of the beautifully crafted bow, strong and proud against his back. “ _You are not the only one the Lady Galadriel has returned her gift to. She must have seen them in your memories, and then arranged for mine to be brought to my father’s halls. I was given it just today, when I returned after meeting you at the skinchanger’s place, and most of the spiders found their ends by arrows shot from it._ ”

“A bow of the Galadhrim,” Gimli mutters. “Had he any appreciation for elvish skills, Kíli would die of envy.”

“ _Kíli?_ ” Tauriel asks. “ _Is that the one-_ ”

“-you saved, aye,” the dwarf finishes the sentence, and then raises his eyes only to look upon beautiful green doors. They have actually managed to chat away the marching.

The dwarves are led into the underground halls then, and Gimli fondly observes as Legolas lingers in the doorway, giving a certain invisible hobbit the chance to make it into the woodland realm undetected. Well, almost.

In the meantime the companions are being unbound, and led towards where the cells must be. Tauriel – grinning – marches off to take care of Kíli, while Legolas himself puts one of his delicate hands onto Gimli’s broad shoulder. “ _I shall take care of this one_ ,” he announces and together they watch, hidden in the shadows, as the other dwarves are being relieved of their armour and locked away, all but Thorin who is already brought before the King by two of the elvish guards.

Gimli snickers as he watches another knife being taken from Fíli, and the jealously in the blond dwarf’s eyes when Kíli flirts with Tauriel. The fair red-haired captain plays his game, and grinning Legolas asks her the words he remembers having spoken the last time:

“ _Why is that naug staring at you, Tauriel?_ ”

“ _He is quite tall, for a naug, don’t you think?_ ”

“ _Taller than some… but not less ugly._ ” His voice could not be any more amused, and there is something the red-haired dwarf cannot read in his blue orbs when the younger one raises his gaze to meet his friend’s eyes which are all but drilling into his.

Kíli watches after Tauriel like a love-sick puppy, unaware of the observing elves’ amusement, and Gimli thinks that maybe he is the only one able to see through this act. Fíli certainly is not, anger and disappointment written deeply into his features. The time traveller feels with his friend, for he knows what it is like not to be able to tell your One who they are to you. He has only realized it at some point during their quest; that those two brothers are meant for each other – and that both of them know, but neither dares to tell the other.

Sibling love is not as much of a taboo in dwarvish culture as it is for men, for when Mahal’s children have finally set their heart upon that one person they choose to love (and yes, it is partly a conscious decision, letting your soul bind itself to the other’s; however, sometimes you cannot quite help it) they will never turn to anyone else for the rest of their lives. It can lead to a lot of heartbreak, dwarves choosing someone who will never be able to reciprocate – and still, not once has Gimli regretted setting his heart and soul upon Legolas.

A melancholic smile on his lips, the elf’s warmth seeping through his clothing and into his shoulder, he watches as Fíli turns away from the sight and the way Kíli’s face falls at that.

He will not help them, he decides, they have to go through this alone.

Also, maybe it is better this way. If they die – should the Lady Galadriel decide that not changing the course of history is what has to be done – one will have to fall before the other, and letting go will be easier that way. (He hopes. Maybe it will just hurt more. Maybe losing Fíli was the reason Kíli fought like he did, unable to live without the other.)

The slight pressure on his shoulder tears him from his thoughts and he raises his head, only to meet the elf’s worried eyes. “ _We should go_ ,” he announces, hesitating. “ _My father will be talking to Oakenshield right now, and I would love to overhear that conversation._ ”

Gimli huffs. “ _Like Tauriel would like to overhear the conversation that is still before us?_ ”

“ _Just like that._ ” Legolas’ lips are twitching and the worry has fled from his eyes. “ _Now come, mellon nín, or we will miss the best parts._ ”

Shaking his head fondly the dwarf lets himself be dragged along, admiring the architecture of the twisted halls and bewildering paths. They may be dwelling underground, but the bridges are grown from wood not hewn from stone, and Gimli feels lost, his natural senses failing him in the woodelven King’s realm. Were it not for his elvish guide, he would go hopelessly astray.

Legolas leads them to a small platform hidden in the shadow of a much bigger one a level higher, and they take a seat on a wooden bench that allows them to overhear every word spoken only a few metres above them.

“ _This place was made solely for that purpose_ ,” the elf explains, winking. “ _My father realized that sometimes he would have to deal with conversations he wanted to be overheard without his interlocutor knowing. It works rather well, as you can see, mellon nín._ ” His whisper is barely audible, and his lips almost touch the shell of the other time-traveller’s ear. Gimli shivers. “ _He, of course, knows that we are here. However, the dwarf’s hearing is not as fine as his, and neither is that of the present guards._ ”

“ _Quite convenient_ ,” Gimli agrees readily, voice no more than a breath. He leans back, making himself comfortable, and listens to the first sentences of Thranduil’s clearly practiced speech. Well, he had decades to prepare it.

“… A quest to reclaim a homeland; and slay a dragon…”

Gimli idly listens as the elven king expresses his suspicions of a much less noble motive (and, really how could he have known? The bastard does have a brain in his skull, the dwarf has to give him that), very much distracted when suddenly Legolas’ long fingers find his own.

He thinks his heart stops when the elvish hand closes around his calloused one, hesitatingly but with determination. “ _I did really miss you dearly_ ,” is whispered into his ear. “ _I would not have known what to do without you._ ” Gimli, knowing very well how different the elvish and dwarvish cultures are, and that his own people consider their personal space far larger than the Firstborn, tries very hard not to let that obnoxious hope rear its head, having come to terms with the fact that Legolas will never reciprocate his feelings long ago. He has the best friend he could ever wish for, and he is fine with that. However, in moments like this – or whenever the elf braids his beard, a sweet tradition between them – the ache in his heart that he has buried deep down surfaces, so powerful and destructive and _carrying him away_ -

A sudden squeeze of his fingers tears him from that train of thoughts he has not lost himself in for a long time now. Legolas stares at him, piercing gaze filled with worry.

“ _Did I… say or do_ -”

“Do not think anything of it, laddie,” Gimli grumbles uneasily. “I simply got carried away. That happens sometimes.”

“I realized that.”

“It happens to you as well!”

“That it does,” the elf agrees, still staring at him but his grip has loosened.

From above they can hear Thranduil offering Thorin a deal, and Thorin denying; having the gall to insult the elven king in his own halls, shouting loud enough for every pointed ear to hear. Shaking his head disbelievingly Gimli closes his eyes. “And here I thought Balin taught him his manners and rhetoric.”

Legolas chuckles softly. “I can easily see you reacting the same way, mellon nín. Before you got to know me you would have.”

“Before you brainwashed me you mean,” the dwarf retorts, perking up his ears when he hears his friend’s father hiss: “Do not talk to me of dragonfire! I have faced its wrath and ruin! I have faced the great serpents of the north!”

It is the elf’s turn to close his eyes. “ _Not good_ ,” he murmurs. “ _Father talking about dragons never ends well, for those are memories he prefers to forget. Come, mellon nín, we should go to join him. This conversation is over._ ”

Gimli rises together with his friend, frowning. “ _Why does he react like that?_ ”

For a long moment Legolas just stares at him without moving, before averting his gaze, eyes glazed with the distant shadow of a past long gone by. “ _He lived in Doriath when Beleriand still stood. Hence he fought in the War of Wrath alongside my grandfather Oropher; marching against every foul creature Morgoth threw at them in his struggle for victory. Melkor’s balrogs, defeated by the Valar and elves, were not the most terrible beasts he sent into battle: Winged dragons, which had never been seen before, were meant to be his ultimate weapon. They even drove back the Valar. Had it not been for Eärendil and the eagles…_ ” His voice dies away, then he visibly collects himself. “ _Many of those creatures were killed in that war, but some fled to the Northern Waste where they bred and eventually went to war against your forefathers_ ,” the elf explains, whispering, and Gimli listens in awe. Of course he knows about the history his own kin has with those foul fire-breathing beasts; however, Beleriand he knows not much about, not even after so many years of their friendship. “ _Ada does not even mention it, ever. Just once he told me everything he remembers, which leaves not many details out… and never have I forgotten the look in his eyes, that distant pain, or the way his skin crumbled and gave way for injuries long healed._ ”

Legolas’ voice is unfamiliarly coarse, and after that last sentence he straightens himself and leads his friend away with a determination and stiffness in his step that Gimli has not seen often.

They take a few entwined paths before reaching the level on which the two kings are still exchanging a verbal war, just in time to hear Thranduil’s last words: “Stay here, if you will, and rot. A hundred years is just a blink of an eye in the life of an elf. I am patient. I can wait.” And with nothing more than one single gesture the guards step forward and drag Thorin Oakenshield away despite his struggling, towards the cells of his companions.

Sliding into the shadows in his back so that his leader will not notice him Gimli tries to ignore that strange sadness that has befallen his heart upon the elven king’s words, and the undercurrent that had rippled through the regal voice.

_Stay here, if you will, and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf. I am patient. I can wait._

Is that what their friendship is to Legolas? Nothing but the blink of an eye?

 

_TBC_


	13. In council with the Elvenking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **13\. In council with the Elvenking**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 17: The Clouds Burst_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> …my muse might have been high when I worked on this. Ahh, who cares – I had _a lot_ of fun writing, and I hope you’ll also have fun reading ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

### 13\. In council with the Elvenking

Imagining that _he_ could have the elf at his side for no more than a fraction of his life breaks Gimli’s heart. No matter the nature of Legolas’ feelings for him, this is cruel! Thranduil has spoken about Gimli as much as about his companions, and he feels his mortality weigh heavily.

Turning his head he takes in the tension in his elvish friend; the clenched fists and the lips pressed tightly together to form nothing but a thin white line.

This time it is him who reaches out for the elf’s fingers, giving the older one a smile. “Do not think about it, laddie,” he offers. “Yes, I am mortal, and death is part of my life even outside battle and disease – however, that does not mean that we cannot have one hell of a time while I am here. So, forget about it. We mortals do that, too, and we are good at it.”

Legolas snorts quietly, a sound that seems to be caught somewhere between suppressed laughter and a sob. “It is hard to forget that you will not share eternity with me, my dear friend, but I shall try. For your sake.” He then squeezes Gimli’s fingers before letting go of them, and marching off towards where his father – all glum and morose, his puckered eyebrows a dark shadow on his ageless face – is waiting, his strides so long and fast that the dwarf barely manages to keep up with him. The elf realizes that and slows down, giving his friend an apologetic look.

Gimli grumbles into his beard, mutters something about elves and ridiculously long legs, and just follows his friend.

Legolas’ lips are actually twitching at that and he visibly composes himself, taking a deep breath, then steps before his still brooding father, who sends the remaining guards away with one gesture.

“ _Ada_ ,” his son says, “ _This is Gimli, son of Glóin, who has been a loyal friend through many perils. I wish for you to meet, like you already did where I come from._ ”

The distraction seems to work, for now there is a shadow of a different kind darkening the King’s features. “ _Oh is he?_ ” he asks, doubt ringing through his voice.

Gimli forcibly holds back a biting retort and instead indicates a bow, eyes cast down. “ _Mae l'ovannen, King Thranduil_ ,” he greets formally and with all the respect he can muster. He then straightens himself, staring the elven king down. “Well met, father of my friend Legolas. Gimli Glóin’s son, at your service,” he adds the traditional dwarvish greeting.

Surprise is etched into the King’s features and Legolas’ lips are twitching. “ _See, Ada, not all dwarves are impolite cultureless worms as you like to point out._ ”

“ _Worms?_ ” Gimli revolts. “ _It seems your son surpasses you in the skill of offering insults – repeatedly he has claimed me to be obstinate as a donkey, a slander I find to be far more befitting of a stubborn naug like me!_ ”

Thranduil’s eyebrows shoot upwards.

Gimli has just managed to insult himself and the King, as well as compliment Legolas and offer a worthy retort with no more than one sentence.

“ _Well, thank you!_ ” the prince chuckles. “ _You praising someone’s insulting skills is quite a compliment – and one that I have to return. You too know how to utter suitable slander in any situation._

Gimli bows for real this time, mockingly, and at that the most unexpected turn of events happens:

Thranduil throws his head back and _laughs_.

The two time travellers exchange partly shocked, partly worried glances at that.

“ _He has already had one almost civil conversation with a dwarf today. Maybe he is trying to set a new record?_ ” the elf suggests, whispering.

Of course his father’s fine ears pick up on that, which – to the two friends’ horror – leads to even more laughter.

They decide to wait quietly, then, for this almost scary moment to end, but the bright pearls of laughter lightening up the dim halls and the mirth in the usually so composed king’s eyes work powerfully at Gimli’s self-control. And, really, it does not take more than a few minutes until he joins in, his dark baritone ringing through the halls along with the melodic elvish voice. Not long after that Legolas chimes in as well, and were they not so occupied with laughing, they would see dumbfounded elves stopping to listen all over the place. It has been a long time since any of them have heard their King laugh genuinely.

When they have calmed down again Thranduil actually gives Gimli an honest smile, before gesturing at them to follow him. “ _Come_ ,” he says. “ _We shall continue this conversation in my suite, where we do not run danger of eavesdropping ears. Tauriel can join us when we are ready to share with her._ ” He stresses the name of the captain of his guard in a strange way, and while Gimli’s hearing may not be fine enough to pick up the surprised gasp he assumes the two elves hear he does see the amusement on his friend’s face.

“ _Just like you said_ ,” the dwarf grins and Legolas snickers.

“ _Exactly._ ”

Thranduil gives them an unreadable look, but continues onwards through the maze of paths and tunnels.

Smiling, Legolas drops a hand onto Gimli’s shoulder and walks with his friend, a calming and welcome presence for a dwarf in an elvish kingdom. His heavy steps almost resounding in the wide halls, so much louder than the barely audible treading of his two light-footed companions, he happily stomps along, once again enjoying this opportunity to marvel at the beauty of a home made for immortals. Still, the agelessness seeping out of every single wall is so very present, despite the fact that the roots and branches which form the many paths and bridges are made of mortal wood, instead of deathless rock and stone. It constricts Gimli in a way he cannot describe.

It reminds him of the dark, almost desperate look on his friend’s fair face when the elven king had talked about the mortality of dwarves; and there is a lump in his throat the reason for which he would rather not think about. Thus he tries to let himself be distracted by the beauty of the underground kingdom, and his elf’s presence next to him.

Finally they reach a wide set of rooms, all richly furnished and beautiful, and Thranduil indicates at them to take a seat.

A little awkwardly Gimli climbs one of the high chairs, and Legolas – an amused smile on his lips – sits down next to him, watching merrily. “ _Would you like me to find you a box?_ ” he asks, his eyes laughing.

Gimli snorts. “ _That was deliberate!_ ” he grins, bringing up another old joke.

Legolas’ laughter is bright and sudden; and seems to startle his father. “ _As long as you do not tell me about your kin’s swimming habits again…_ ”

“ _Are you just insulting the women of my people, elf?_ ” he bristles, fighting the grin that is threatening to spill with all his might. “ _I will have you know that our dwarrowdams have the most wonderful beards! Other than you, my hairless friend!_ ”

The elf shoots him an indignant look. “ _I will not have you talk badly about my beautiful and well-groomed thatch!_ ”

At that Gimli finds himself unable to suppress the laughing fit any longer. “Beautiful and well-groomed thatch?” he guffaws, shaking his head disbelievingly. “You have already come up with better retorts, my friend. Well-groomed – that I will not let you get away with, for there are still leaves and threads of cobweb in your hair.”

Legolas’ fingers dart upwards and begin to search for the aforementioned objects, which has Gimli laugh only louder. “ _You are almost as vain as that dragon, mellon nín._ ”

The elf pouts. “ _I am not vain! What is wrong with wanting to look good? After all, I want yo-_ ” He snaps his mouth shut again without ever finishing his sentence.

Gimli watches him with an eyebrow raised, waiting for the missing words none the less, until he catches sight of Thranduil. The elven king is staring at them, shaking his head disbelievingly. While the ageless beauty is still there the aloofness and arrogance seeping out of his every word during his conversation with Thorin are long gone. Is this what meeting Thranduil the individual, not Thranduil the King, means?

Legolas must have caught the surprise in his eyes for he follows his gaze and then smiles. “ _Ada_ ,” he says “ _this dwarf will be my friend whatever you say or think. However, it would mean a lot to me if you accepted it._ ”

First, the millennia old being just stares. Never at Gimli, though, no – he stares his son down. The usually so composed archer squirms a little, but withstands the scrutiny and suddenly there is something entirely else in those icy blue eyes which are so similar to Legolas’, yet which the dwarf has never learned to read. “ _Are you sure?_ ” he asks, and Legolas nods without hesitating.

“ _With all my heart._ ”

“ _Then I shall not come between you._ ”

“ _Fate will do that soon enough_ ,” the elf murmurs and there is an unfamiliar bitterness in his voice.

Thranduil raises an arm; lays long, elegant fingers across his sons’. Gimli cannot help but think that they match his elf’s hands so much better than his own. “ _I am sorry, ion nín_ ,” the King says, sincerely. “ _For my words earlier. I did not know…_ ”

“ _You could not have known_ ,” Legolas immediately answers. “ _I know you were not trying to hurt me. Now, shall we talk business?_ ”

Gimli opens his mouth to ask, but then snaps it closed again. He probably does not want to know, and from the looks in their eyes they will not tell him anyway.

For a few moments Thranduil hesitates, but then nods and draws his hand back. He settles back in his chair and looks at Gimli again, for the first time since the banter has stopped. “ _I do not like you, but I will accept you, for my son’s sake_ ,” he says sincerely.

Gimli nods his head in acceptance and answers with “ _Hannon le_ ”, but then grins. “ _Oh, but you will come to like me! If only to annoy my father, and uncles._ ”

“ _Your father and uncles?_ ”

While Legolas buries his head in his hands, muttering something about stupid pigheads in a desperate voice, the dwarf answers with a toothy grin: “ _I am of Durin’s line, did you not know?_ ”

For a moment, Thranduil is frozen. A look Gimli cannot quite read then slowly spreads across his beautiful features. “ _Glóin’s son_ ,” he repeats, slowly. “ _You are related to Thorin Oakenshield by more than just a mad quest – by blood?_ ”

“Aye,” Gimli answers, proud of his heritage, and still offers the King a smile. “ _Stubborn, proud folk, we are._ ”

“ _You… your kin has never forgiven me for not aiding them when the dragon came. Yet you are here, friends with my son, and talking to me without hatred._ ” There is a wonder in his words the dwarf would never have expected hearing from the King.

“ _In the beginning, I was filled with more repulsion and bias than you could possibly imagine_ ,” Gimli admits readily. “ _However, fighting in a war with your son always at my side – changed many of my views. Also, when I got to know him better I realized that not liking him is quite impossible._ ” He winks at his friend, then, and Legolas shakes his head, smirking. “ _While in the beginning I just enjoyed our insulting and later friendly teasing, I soon learned that there were few I could trust like him. I would put my life in his hands without hesitating._ ” This time the sincerity in his voice lies heavily in the air.

Thranduil actually smiles. “ _What impresses me most is that you have overcome your_ repulsion and bias _in the first place_ ,” he admits.

Gimli grins. “ _It is hard not to, when travelling with a Dúnedain who has grown up among elves as your leader, and four hobbits who admire all Firstborn on principle. Est- … Elessar always held Legolas’ opinion and skill in high esteem, and I soon learned to trust him as well._ ”

The King has obviously noticed his almost-slip, for his eyes are squinted. When his son opens his mouth to say that he cannot tell the older one quickly explains: “ _I am well aware that it is important that details of your future are kept secret. However, I cannot help but be curious._ ”

Gimli snorts at that, which – in turn – makes Legolas snicker.

At Thranduil’s raised eyebrow he explains: “ _Gimli likes to comment on the boundless curiosity of our people, since he has come across it more than often, and not only from me._ ”

“ _Whom else did you meet?_ ” The beautiful elf asks, surprised.

Gimli squirms, and darts the younger one a short glance.

Legolas has told him about his father’s animosity towards Elrond and Galadriel more than once, for he rules his kingdom alone, not letting anyone interfere, in exchange keeping out of other people’s matters; while the other two do like to meddle.

When his friend nods slowly he offers: “ _I have passed through Rivendell three times so far, and once through Lórien. I have worked with elves, and fought with elves, and buried the dead with elves. Lord Elrond has offered his healing skills repeatedly, and together with the Lady Galadriel he has sent a squad of warriors to our aid when it was dearly needed. All of them proved to be highly curious. Also, I have exchanged a few words with Tauriel. She is not to be excluded from that law of nature; and neither are you it seems._ ” Quite pleased with how he has diverted the attention to the captain of Thranduil’s guard Gimli leans against the backrest of his chair.

The King’s lips are twitching, and Legolas winks at him.

“ _Also, he got reeling drunk with Erestor._ ”

“ _Erestor, as in advisor of Elrond?_ ” the eldest asks, surprised.

“ _Indeed, just a few weeks ago. It seems he learned nothing from our small drinking game in Edoras._ ”

“ _What should he have learned?_ ” Thranduil looks as if he is not sure whether he wants to know.

“ _That an elf may outdrink a dwarf any day_ ,” Legolas grins, and breaks out in laughter when he sees the sour look on Gimli’s face.

“ _My dear elf_ ,” the dwarf says, and his voice is dangerously sweet. “ _I do have to admit that I cannot hold my liquor as well as you. However, I will not listen to you asserting I were not teachable. I knew very well what was waiting for me when I met with Erestor to talk over a glass of wine, and I can honestly claim that he was as out as I was in the end, for he surely consummated the double amount of what I drank. So, perhaps you would like to participate in an experiment?_ ”

“ _An experiment?_ the elf asks, clearly getting nervous. “ _What do you have in mind?_ ”

“ _Well, it is definitely in order that we find out how many glasses of Mirkwood wine you have to drink for the effect to equal what one glass does to me._ ”

Thranduil laughs again, then, and his laughter is almost as beautiful as his son’s. (Maybe there would be no ‘almost’ were Legolas not the one creature in Middle-Earth who will always be perfect above all else to Gimli.) He inclines his head, still smiling, and with that sour look gone from his ageless features he seems to be shining, radiating starlight and bathing in the silvery sheen. “ _You do surprise me, Gimli, son of Glóin. I certainly appreciate your humour and your openness of mind, as well as your willingness to accept anything elven. Never have I met a naug like you, and I must say I am grateful to know a warrior of your ability at my son’s side. Expect my aid in whatever way you might need._ ”

Gimli thinks he might be gaping quite impolitely, and even Legolas’ eyes are wide.

“ _Thank you_ ,” the dwarf manages to say, his voice rather croaky. “ _I myself am quite surprised. It seems my family never got to know you at all, to be telling naught but offensive tales about you. Legolas…_ ” He hesitates for a second, and then decides to go through with it. “ _Legolas has told me how you could talk about dragonfire like you knew it. While I have not marched to war against any of those winged beasts, I have seen elves fall to their death in battle, forever taken from them in the cruellest of ways, and I have buried them when their eyes were broken and their breath was gone. Also, I have lost many of my own people to the malice of orcs. I know that pain, as well as the responsibility and guilt that rest on your shoulders when you lead those to their death which you love, knowing that you could have saved each and every one. That you did not throw your people to the wrath of a dragon… I cannot hold that against you. Thus, I can only thank you for your kind offer, and I am proud to call another edhel my friend._ ”

Thranduil’s eyes have darkened and he seems to be lost in thought, but there is a slight smile on his lips still.

The one on Legolas’, however, is wide and rather dazzling. “That was quite a speech, mellon nín,” he murmurs, and adds with a playful twinkle in his eyes: “I did not think you had it in you.”

Gimli laughs at that, loudly and freely, and thinks that he could get used to the echo of one single baritone in the halls of the woodland realm. (Just like he could get used to one certain elf’s sole melodic voice in a kingdom underneath a mountain.)

“Shall we return to planning?” Legolas asks then, and the smile has not left his lips.

“We should,” Thranduil agrees. “My son has told me that _yrch_ ” the word falls from his lips harshly, like an illness “are awaiting you upon your escape, led by Bolg – son of one Azog – and that they will track you to Esgaroth. I shall inform Tauriel to ready a squad of warriors, and to warn the guards at the gate. I fear there is no more we can do for them?”

His eyes are pained.

The same anguish glistens in his son’s bright blue orbs when he agrees. “We must let history take its course. At least until we know what the Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond think of the matter.”

Thranduil purses his lips. “I might not like them or approve of their ways, but will comply if you truly think it best.”

“What is your opinion on the matter, King Thranduil?” Gimli dares to ask.

The beautiful elf stares at him for what seems like an eternity. His eyes are like glacial lakes, crystal blue and icy cold and so very deep. He feels like he is falling, into those infinite depths of wisdom and life experience and _pain_. “I think…” The melodic words tear Gimli from the trance he has found himself in “… that you have been sent here for a purpose. It is my firm belief that this is the Valar’s doing, and that you are here to right the wrongs that have happened, whatever they may be. So, if either of the other two shares my mind, I believe you should go through with it. Also,” a small smile makes it to his lips “there is no reason for you to address me as King. You did call me your friend just moments ago.”

Gimli nods, and returns the smile. “Thank you,” he says, for both the information and the offer of foregoing titles. He thinks that the elf understands.

“I agree with you,” Legolas chimes in. “If at least two of you three say we should change the course of history, then we will.”

“Elrond has already offered his opinion, saying that he thinks we ought to right the wrongs,” the dwarf reminds him.

His friend cocks his head, before nodding. “You said so,” he remembers, referring to when the other had told him everything at Beorn’s place. “However, I still would like to hear Galadriel’s thoughts of the matter. Upon them I would decide whether to change anything, and how much. But now, back to the most pressing matter: What else needs to be done?”

“Preparations for Mereth Nuin Giliath are not finished yet,” Thranduil says. “Since you have told me that our feast will be quite essential for the halfling’s escape plan, we will need to make sure that everything is in order; however, the guards who will fight must not drink any wine. Now, how do we make sure that the halfling leads Oakenshield’s company to the empty barrels and sneaks them out via the river?”

“If we change nothing it should work out just perfectly, Bilbo-”

Even Gimli hears the loud gasp. He exchanges a quick glance with Legolas, and it is the elf who yells:

“Show yourself, Bilbo Baggins!”

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do think that Thranduil choosing against fighting the dragon was not the only way he "refused" the dwarves help – I assume he also didn’t offer refuge, food and medicine to those who managed to escape. In my head canon, at least, he also turned his back on a suffering people.
> 
> However, I chose to leave that out for the sake of Gimli and Thranduil’s relationship.


	14. You had better keep your promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **14\. You had better keep your promises**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 7: Queer Lodgings_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Quite a lot of head-canon in here… I _like_ the idea of elves as kind of _wild_ creatures, alright?
> 
> Also, a little more Thranduil!Gimli!silliness

### 14\. You had better keep your promises

_“Show yourself, Bilbo Baggins!”_

 

Nothing happens; however, the elves’ eyes are trained on one and the same spot, and Gimli imagines that they must hear the hobbit’s probably erratic breathing.

He jumps from his chair, then, and makes for where Bilbo must be standing. “Take that Ring off, laddie,” he says, as softly as he manages. “We need to talk, and we will not do so while you linger in the shadows.”

His words show success.

Out of seemingly thin air the hobbit appears, fingers moving quickly to hide the Ring in a pocket (the same pocket Frodo used to hide it in); panting and eyes wide.

“Sit down, please,” Legolas murmurs. “There are some things we need to tell you. We were already planning to, but on our own conditions, not with you caught in the in between.”

“Caught… where?” Bilbo asks, voice shaking. Slowly he climbs one of the chairs, just like Gimli does.

Again the two time-travellers share a glance. “Does it matter?” the elf then asks. “We have a much more important issue at hand.”

More important than the Ring of Power? Well. In some ways at least.

“You…” Bilbo squints his eyes. “You said something about changing history!”

A third shared glance.

“Aye,” Gimli agrees after a few moments of heavy, uncomfortable silence.

It is time.

“As you know by now, it is customary for dwarves to introduce ourselves with our own name, along with our father’s. You have heard most of the others’, aye?”

“Yes,” the hobbits nods, obviously relieved to be on known territory again. “Balin and Dwalin are Fundin’s sons.” _Were_ , Gimli’s brain supplies immediately. “Thorin, son of Thráin. Óin and Glóin, sons of Gróin. Fíli and Kíli, sons of Víli. I do not know about the other six, or you, though.”

The dwarf smiles at that. “And with good reason. After all, what would you have said had I told you that my name is Gimli Glóin’s son?”

Bilbo gapes. “Glóin? As in-”

“-our fellow companion, aye. He is my father.”

“But you… You said your name was Gimin! And he does not seem to be much older than you! I am sorry, I am very bad at guessing ages, after all I have not known any dwarves before you; however… should you not be Fíli and Kíli’s age rather than Glóin’s?”

“And I am. Or rather, I were when this – the quest for Erebor – happened the last time. I… for me and Legolas here, all this has happened before. I was too young to accompany Thorin then, and believe me, I did beg him to let me come. He did not allow me to; however, Legolas played his part. We lived through this quest, we saw what happened when it came to an end, and we made it through many more years, and a long and cruel war. Maybe you can imagine our surprise when we went to sleep at home, and woke up here… in this time. So, you are right. My father should be much older than me. At the moment, however, he is no more than eighteen years my senior. My name – was a lie, of course. I do not want Thorin to find out too early.”

“You… travelled through time.” It is more of a statement than a question, and the disbelief is almost dripping from the hobbit’s words.

Legolas and Gimli exchange another glance. The elf nods.

“We did know about your Ring, did we not?”

At that Bilbo stares at them and one hand – unconsciously – finds the golden trinket in the pocket of his vest, fingers closing tightly around the _precious_. The look in the hobbit’s eyes is quite disconcerting, something between fear and possessiveness.

Legolas smiles, chases away the moment. “We need your help, Bilbo Baggins. We need you to aid us in making everything happen the way it has to. We do not know yet whether we can change disasters that have happened the last time or not; however, either way we need to keep history as close to what it once was as possible, if only in order to be able to predict what is going to happen at certain points.”

Bilbo gulps. “What… why would I help you? I do not know whether you say the truth!”

“I vouch for them,” Thranduil speaks up for the first time. “I have seen the difference in my son, and I would know no other reason for it. Also, I am quite sure that Glóin will agree with me on that.”

“As would Fíli and Kíli,” Gimli adds.

“Assuming that I believe you… why would I help?” the hobbit repeats his question. He looks to be quite insecure, sitting before the grand elven king, but he certainly is no longer the halfling who has left the Shire, the creature who would not have dared to question what he is told. This is the one who has interposed himself between Thorin Oakenshield and Azog the Defiler, with a sword he barely knew how to wield in his tiny hands and certain death looming just around the corner.

“Because you will want to save Thorin,” Legolas murmurs. His voice is like honey, and his deep orbs are danger and promise at the same time.

Bilbo recoils on pure instinct. “He… would he… will he… _die_?”

“That is the question.” The elvish purr rolls through the air, lulling and luring.

(Gimli loves it when the elf behaves like that; an almost feline predator with the appearances of a humanoid creature but the body of a hunter. He feels something trickle down his spine that would arouse fear in others, but not in him. He just finds himself intrigued once again. He knows, he would let himself be enticed gladly, never regretting it.)

The sense of both evanescence and forever is heavy.

“A-alright,” the hobbit finally squeaks. “I am going to help you! What- what do you need?”

“Well. First of all, you will tell none of the others about this. The knowledge we have is dangerous and could easily abused.” Gimli waits for a hesitant nod before he continues. “You will not need to do much, actually. Just act the way you would anyway, and if we give you a few rough outlines make sure to follow them. That is everything.”

Bilbo nods again, slowly; obviously thinking about it. “I… I guess I can do that,” he agrees at last.

The relieved sighs both of the elves are breathing are undetectable for the hobbit, but Gimli does not miss them (not due to any great hearing, of course, but due to how he has learned to read elves). “Great,” he says. “Well, there will be a huge feast tomorrow. I suppose you have already found the barrels?”

Hesitantly the halfling nods once more.

“Then you already know what to do. We shall take care of everything else.” With that Thranduil averts his gaze from the hobbit and addresses Gimli directly, not caring about the impoliteness of talking Sindarin in Bilbo’s presence. “ _You impressed me yet again_ ,” he remarks. “ _You stayed remarkably calm during my son’s… show._ ”

The dwarf’s grin is toothy, and just as dangerous as the elf’s lure had been mere moments before. “ _I have seen Legolas bury his knives in more bodies than I could count. I have watched him slaughter enemies, saving our lives in the process. He is a fierce warrior, one I would not want to have against me. Many times has he fallen into what is his nature in battle, and I have found it to be fascinating every time I had the opportunity to watch._.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows have crawled worryingly close to his hairline and Bilbo is watching uncomprehendingly. “ _Quite the dwarf you have hooked yourself, ion nín_ ,” he remarks dryly into the direction of his son. “ _I suppose it never gets boring with him?_ ”

“ _Never_ ,” Legolas agrees easily, grinning as well. “ _Even in battle he raises my spirits_.”

It is Gimli who is now raising his eyebrows. “ _Which incident exactly are you mocking me for now?_ ”

“ _I shall say no more than one word: tossing._ ”

The dwarf gapes at that. “How can you possibly know- … Elessar! He told you!” This time his tongue does not slip.

“ _But of course he did_ ,” the elf admits readily, eyes sparkling with mirth. “ _You must have made Helm’s Deep so much more bearable for him. He did make me promise not to tell anyone else, though._ ”

“ _Where is the good in that?_ He _promised me not to tell_ you _! The traitor…!_ ”

The melodic laughter is almost apologetic. “ _That he did. However, it was a dark night when we went with Théoden’s army, marching for Minas Tirith, and we did need something to hold on to, something to raise our spirits._ ”

Gimli deflates as quickly as he had puffed up. “ _I suppose that is as good a reason as any_ ,” he gives in, easily remembering the almost unbearable gloom that had befallen the warriors who were riding to their death because their King had called upon them. Hope had been scarce those days, even for the three friends, and most nights sleep had eluded them. The men of Rohan had been nothing but courageous; and still one had depressed the other.

“ _May I inquire what you are talking about?_ ” Thranduil chips in, no longer able to keep his curiosity at bay.

Legolas, whose eyes had been as sombre as the dwarf’s, shakes the memory off. “ _I am going to say naught but two sentences_ ,” he gives in, darting Gimli a mocking glace. “ _‘Nobody tosses a dwarf!’ and ‘Do not tell the elf!’ That should disclose everything._ ”

“ _Indeed._ ” The corners of the King’s mouth are twitching. “ _Now, shall we return to planning?_ ”

“ _Please._ ”

“ _Well then. What is left that needs to be discussed?_ ”

“ _The battle_ ,” Legolas answers. “ _Whether we can change history or not, we must know how to act in either case._ ”

“ _True_ ,” his father acknowledges. “ _Gimli, what do you think? You will know best what is going to come upon your company._ ”

“ _I do_ ,” the dwarf agrees. “ _My father told me every detail when we reached Erebor last time, as did his companions. I know not everything, but what I do know is that Fíli will be slaughtered by Azog himself, and that Kíli will fall battling Bolg. Thorin will receive fatal wounds, inflicted by the Defiler, and succumb to them shortly after the hobbit finds him – about at the arrival of the eagles. All three of them rode to Ravenhill, together with Dwalin, in order to defeat the enemy’s leader… it was a set trap, waiting to spring. We shall have to accompany them should they decide to go there again; however, in the event that we choose to change history I propose that we tell them._ ”

“ _What would you tell them?_ ” Legolas asks sceptically, and his eyes are inevitably drawn to where the Ring must be resting in Bilbo’s pocket.

“ _That we have travelled through time, and that we know the three of them to fall, as well as when and how. No more than that_ ,” Gimli immediately answers.

Slowly his elf nods. “ _I suppose that would be fine. You do know them best, after all._ ”

“ _I do_.”

“ _Then it is decided_ ,” Thranduil says, before turning to look at his son. “ _Now, if you let everything take its course – what do I do, how many warriors do I send? You were in that battle, after all, so our forces must have joined the dwarves’._ ”

“ _They did_ ,” his son confirms. “ _After a little scolding from Gandalf. I do not remember the exact numbers, I was too occupied with surviving my first_ real _battle. However, they were too few. We had been expecting to besiege the dwarves, not to be attacked by an army of orcs and goblins. So, if we change our fates – send out every able warrior. They may be able to save each other. Also, we need as many bowmen as we can get, for the dwarves have none but Kíli and many of the men died when the dragon attacked Laketown._ ”

“ _I will send out an army worthy of the prince of Mirkwood_ ,” Thranduil promises. “ _Do you… would you prefer to lead our forces yourselves, or have me captain them?_ ”

“ _Would you do it, Ada, please? I have no experience with motivating and commanding, I am no Elessar. Also, I would prefer to be-_ ”

“ _-wherever Gimli will be, which means at the centre of the battlefield_ ,” Thranduil finishes easily. He smiles. “ _I understand that, do not worry. Fight your battles the way you do best, and I will do what I have been taught._ ”

Relief is etched into Legolas’ fine features. “ _Hannon le, Ada._ ”

Gimli fights to keep himself from staring – both of them are so very beautiful in this rather intimate moment – and his eyes fall upon the hobbit. Bilbo is still sitting there, watching them discuss in a language he does not understand, clearly uneasy. He catches Gimli’s gaze and gives the dwarf a tentative smile, squirming a little.

“I am sorry, Bilbo,” he says, distracting the two elves from whatever meanings they are now conveying with naught but glances and smiles. “We were so immersed in our discussion that we completely forgot about you.  
”  
“I noticed,” the hobbit remarks, rather dryly.

Thranduil is quite clearly embarrassed. “Excuse us. But… you must be hungry, please, help yourself,” he says, pointing at bowls with different kinds of fruit on the table they are sitting around. Gimli has not even realized their presence. When he raises his gaze he catches Legolas’ eyes – which are daring him to eat some. The dwarf’s smile broadens and, pointedly, he reaches for a strange ovoid fruit, breaking it open. Which was not a good idea. A lot of viscous, sticky juice trickles onto the polished table, and Gimli hastily puts one of the halves complete with the skin into his mouth, chewing roughly and swallowing as soon as possible, while he tries to keep the second half from dripping by forming a bowl with his wide hands. By the time he is trying to lick the juice from his fingers after having gulped down the second half as well Thranduil, Legolas and Bilbo are barely managing to keep themselves upright, shaking with laughter. Huffing, Gimli sits back and tries to ignore the state of his fingers and palms, as well as the amusement pearling through the room.

“Shall we continue then?” His voice provides quite the contrast to the bright elvish and hobbit ones, and Legolas is the first to recover.

“We should,” he agrees, still snickering. “If you are not sticking to the table that is?”

Gimli blushes, but just a little. “Well, you could have warned me!”

“I could have,” the elf admits cheerfully. “But where would have been the fun in that?”

The dwarf turns to face Thranduil, his grin having grown rather dangerous once again. “I propose then that Legolas has to cleanse this table, for clearly it is his fault that I have soiled it.”

The King does not hesitate to nod. “Proposal accepted,” he announces, and the gleeful undercurrent is unmistakable. “Ion, I expect you to take care of it within this evening.”

Bilbo giggles and happily munches away at some smaller fruit. Without dribbling.

Gimli pouts.

As does Legolas.

Again Thranduil bursts into laughter.

“You were right,” he declares when he has calmed down again. “I do like you. Your demeanour is quite entertaining, and the way my son reacts to it even more. You will always be welcome in my realm, Gimli Glóin’s son.”

“I am honoured,” Gimli answers, grinning. He then addresses the hobbit: “I am sorry that we were talking a tongue you do not speak in your presence. However, we were discussing matters we cannot tell you about… yet. I hope you will forgive us the rudeness?”

“It is forgiven,” Bilbo answers absent-mindedly, still concentrated on eating what a hobbit must deem to be proper food, compared to what little the road has allowed them.

“Could you also… please, do not tell any of the others that I speak Sindarin. They might not take it well.”

“No, they would not,” Bilbo agrees happily. “Alright, I will keep silent about it.”

“Thank you.” It is Legolas who answers.

The hobbit looks quite intrigued, but refrains from asking the questions that are quite visibly burning.

“ _So, Legolas and Tauriel will come to Esgaroth_ ,” Thranduil resumes seamlessly “ _They will take care of the yrch, and if possible safe as many of the men from the wrath of the dragon as they can. It is a shame that their arrows will not do the beast any harm._ ”

Gimli hums. “ _What if… well, I know that a black arrow and a windlance are necessary to break through the scales, which should not be as big a problem as could be expected. However, I wonder… what would happen if one took a shot at the eye?_ ”

Both elves sit frozen for a moment.

“ _I… doubt that it would suffice to kill the beast_ ,” Thranduil says slowly. “ _However, it must at least serve as a distraction. If Legolas would manage to keep the beast occupied until whoever wields the windlance gets his chance… maybe we could save many of the men._ ”

“ _Or evoke the dragon’s wrath_ ”, Legolas argues.

They sit in silence for a few moments.

“ _Better not risk it_ ,” the dwarf finally concludes glumly.

“ _I agree_ ,” the elven king consents and proceeds: “ _There is nothing left to discuss at this point, then? I shall be ready to make another move towards obtaining a part of Oakenshield’s treasure, threaten to besiege and in the end fight with them; if as reluctantly as I manage to._ To sum it up: I will be a general pain. Did I forget anything?”

“No, that did sound quite accurate,” Gimli chuckles. “But, please – make sure to use your sniffiest voice and your sourest face. I know them to be quite impressive.”

Thranduil laughs yet _again_ at that, and soon is joined by his son. “You can count on me,” he assures the dwarf.

“Splendid!” the red-haired time-traveller beams, before addressing the hobbit (who is still eating) once again: “I do have another request, Bilbo.”

He is given a cautious glance. “Which would be…?”

“Do not tell anyone that Thranduil here actually knows how to laugh.”

The laughter increases at that, and even the hobbit chimes in.

Gimli just sits back, looking quite smug and contemplating whether the elves would mind him smoking his pipe in their halls. He should definitely ask them, for what is a proper party without a nice smoke?

Thranduil is the one who regains his composure first. “Alright. Master Hobbit, I believe you should leave us then. You can come here for more food should you have the need before the feast. Also, know that we will return most of the dwarves’ weapons after they have reached Erebor. The feast will take its place like planned, and Master Dwarf: You are free to attend it for as long as possible, provided that you do not conduct your experiment.” His eyes are twinkling and Gimli stifles a laugh.

Bilbo nods and climbs to the floor. “I have to admit that I am looking forward to seeing drunken elves,” he replies quite cheekily, and gets ready to leave the wide room.

“Please,” Thranduil’s call stops him “Could you go invisibly? My guards, who will by now surely be lingering before my doors, would otherwise doubt their skills – rightly so, but I am in no mood to push their egos. Also, I would prefer it not to have you taken captured and brought before me. We already know each other, it would be rather… pointless.” There is a dangerous glimmer in his smile.

The hobbit, however, nods, turns towards the doors, puts the Ring on and slips outside, seemingly unaffected.

Sitting back Thranduil waits for the tiny movement of one of the double doors, and only moments later a guard pokes his head in. “ _Your Majesty, we-_ ”

Before his gaze even falls onto the dwarf the king has interrupted him: “ _Send for Tauriel, I need to speak to her. Also, I do not wish to be disturbed until the feast._ ” He adds a tiny gesture and the guard has fled the room faster than the wind.

Gimli gives Thranduil an impressed incline of his head. “ _Quite nicely done, Your Majesty_ ,” he teases.

The smug smile on the fair lips returns the air of the unapproachable, haughty royal that the King seems to be carrying usually, and the two time-travellers exchange a glance. At this point Gimli is almost relieved about the change of behaviour; the unexpected cheerfulness and easiness had been a little disconcerting to be honest. However, before he gets the chance to taunt the elf about it – some habits are really hard to get rid of – there is a soft knocking at the door, and after Thranduil has called “ _Come in!_ ” Tauriel enters, eyes darting across the room.

“ _My Lord_ ,” she says and bows; the movement swift and impeccable. (Gimli tries not to think about how much clumsier his own motions are, how pathetic he must look next to an elf. He could never be more than a friend to Legolas, but that he can live with. After all, he does have the best friend and brother in arms any dwarf could wish for.)

“ _Sit_ ,” the king prompts and Tauriel obeys, gracefully taking the chair Bilbo has just vacated.

“ _What can I do for you?_ ”

“ _I have informed you of Legolas’ time-travel so that you would listen to any of his orders without questioning them. Now another matter has arisen. However, first things first. You have already met Gimli Glóin’s son I believe?_ ”

“ _I have_ ,” she answers, inclining her head. “ _I did not know his name, though._.”

“ _While he did know of your curiosity_ ,” the King taunts and Gimli cheerfully watches as she blushes.

“ _That is… easily possible. May I speak in my defence?_ ”

“ _Please._ ”

“ _I was rather intrigued by a dwarf receiving the name Elvellon._ ”

Thranduil just gives her a tiny nod, obviously not interested at all. “ _Legolas?_ ”

His son clears his throat. “ _You have been called here for receiving your next orders_ ,” he dutifully announces. “ _You will warn all guards about yrch_ ” the word is like a harsh fault in the otherwise beautiful language “ _in the vicinity, and you will stay sober during the feast._ ”

“ _As you wish._ ” She drops her gaze.

“ _Also_ ,” Thranduil speaks up, voice as cool as his glacial lake eyes “ _I was rather disappointed to hear that you had to save the dwarves from more spiders. Did I not order that nest destroyed two months past?_ ”

“ _We did clear the forest!_ ” Tauriel vows, looking at the prince for help. Legolas averts his gaze – the spiders are no longer his greatest concern. “ _But more spiders keep coming up from the South. They are spawning in the ruins of Dol Guldur. If we could kill them at their source-_ ”

“ _That fortress lies beyond our borders_ ,” Thranduil answers and Gimli has to supress the urge to punch him. He does see the glance the two royal elves exchange, and knows that there is more to this than he can see. Still. “ _Keep our lands clear of those foul creatures, that is your task! Unless my son has told you differently?_ ” His voice betrays his knowledge that, in fact, Legolas has not.

She shakes her head, eyes cast downwards. However, after a deep breath she regains her posture and asks, almost accusingly: “ _And when we drive them off? What then? Will they not spread to other lands?_ ”

Thranduil’s face falls, darkness spreading from the shadows light throws onto his fine features, and Gimli knows that she has chosen the wrong words. “ _Other lands are not my concern_ ,” the elven king says; and the dwarf remembers what Legolas had told him, how his father cared for each and every one of his subjects. He would never risk their lives for the safety of another realm – but maybe for his son’s. “ _The fortunes of the world will rise and fall, but here in this kingdom we will endure._ ” It is the greatest safety he can offer them.

Tauriel’s eyes are wide and full of disbelief.

(Gimli finds it almost scary that he understands the sinda where his own people cannot.)

“ _You may leave_ ,” the ageless elf announces and it is as much of a dismissal as can be.

Obviously fighting the need to object her king she rises slowly, eyes pleading Legolas for support.

“ _Do not forget to inform the guards_ ,” Thranduil reminds her and now his voice could cut through stone. Surrendering, the captain heads for the doors and slips outside just like Bilbo did not long ago.

“ _The last time_ ,” Legolas says quietly “ _You must have told her that I had grown rather fond of her, and that she was not to give me hope where there was none. I believe you also assured her, quite convincingly, that you would never have let me pledge myself to a lowly silvan elf._ ”

While the shadows trickle from Thranduil’s fair features and his lips twitch a little Gimli’s eyes widen.

“You… fancied her?” he asks disbelievingly.

 

_TBC_


	15. The desire of the hearts of dwarves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **15\. The desire of the hearts of dwarves**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> More silliness here, and... I dont know whether to call it pining, misunderstandings, or stupidity.
> 
> Anyway, have fun ^^

### 15\. The desire of the hearts of dwarves

_“You… fancied her?” Gimli asks disbelievingly._

 

Not that he does not understand it. Surely Tauriel is what every elf must wish for in a partner, quite unlike himself.

Legolas actually blushes. “She was the only one who could fight decently and would actually talk to me!” he explains himself, the red touch on his high cheekbones making him even more beautiful. “And, well, I was a rather sheltered princeling and knew little about the world! So, maybe I was a little naïve. Maybe I thought that I really did like her. Maybe I was embarrassingly jealous of her interactions with Kíli. Does it matter? I do know better now, after all.”

“Well, of course it matters!” Gimli rumbles, trying very hard to hide his relief. “After all, we will need to tease you about it!”

“He has got a point,” Thranduil admits. Then: “Would you mind leaving me alone? I will have to organize everything for two possible battles, and I would like to rest. Please do not feel offended-”

“No offense taken,” Gimli interrupts him. “I suppose we will see each other at the feast?”

“We will,” Thranduil promises and then makes straight for a door leading away from the halls, his long index fingers massaging at his temples.

Legolas stares after him with a worried expression, before turning towards Gimli. “What do you want to do? Go spying on your companions, sleep, raid the pantries?”

The dwarf chuckles. “Spying on my companions sounds good, and after that I suppose I should try to get some sleep – before we attend the feast. When your father told us not to conduct our experiment – did he mean that I cannot drink any alcohol at all?”

The elf laughs, brightening the room, and his eyes are twinkling. “You will need to be able to fight afterwards, mellon nín. If you know when to stop, you are free to enjoy yourself in any way you like.”

Gimli huffs and rises, knowing very well that he will drink little to no elven wine. There is no way he is going to endanger his own life, or those of his companions, just because the woodelves are having a jamboree. However, he has managed to raise his friend’s spirits, and that is exactly what has been his plan. “Come now, laddie. Let us do the spying you promised me.”

Legolas rises as well and leads Gimli to yet another door. “This is a shortcut to my suite,” he comments in the sharp, jerky words of the dwarvish language. He speaks Khuzdul the way Gimli speaks Sindarin – heavily accented, but clearly and fluently.

The dwarf follows his elf down a narrow corridor and into another set of rooms that is just as wide, bright and beautiful as Thranduil’s. However, Gimli can almost feel his friend’s presence, his very character. He definitely likes this suite better. “And why exactly are we coming here?”

“Because there are guards waiting before my father’s doors. However, there are none before mine,” Legolas explains, smiling. He then leads the dwarf out into the wide halls of the underground kingdom, and towards the cells where the rest of the company is being held. Whenever they meet more elves they bow to their prince, none daring to comment on his fellow. Finally they reach a wooden bridge that leads into a shadowed room halfway hidden beneath the protruding pathways that connect the cells. Winking, the blonde gestures for his friend to sit down on yet another bench that is cleverly placed.

“Your kingdom seems to be filled with opportunities to eavesdrop,” the dwarf remarks, listening to Balin muttering under his breath, quite obviously annoyed.

“Father thought of everything,” is the undazzled answer. The elf’s eyes, however, are twinkling.

Before Gimli can deliver a retort a guard he does not know steps into the opening of the alcove and bows before his prince.

“ _Stand at ease_ ,” Legolas prompts, before asking: “ _Has anything of interest happened?_ ”

“ _No, my Lord_ ,” the guard denies. “ _Nothing but the old advisor Balin – I remember him from when Erebor still prospered – saying that a deal would have been their only hope, and Oakenshield answering ‘Not our only hope’. Would you know…_ ” His gaze rests on Gimli.

The dwarf does not know whether to be indignant for being suspected right away, or feel warm (and excited) about the fact that Thorin still believes in Bilbo, that the hobbit is going to save them. (Not intervening with these two has been getting harder with every day.)

“ _Have they been asking for me?_ ” he interrupts the elvish scrutiny instead.

The guardsman splutters. “ _I… who are you?_ ”

“ _You would have been asked for Gimin_ ,” he replies coolly.

“ _Well, n- … yes, actually. One dwarf has asked for you, another redhead. I did not answer him, for they have all been asking about each other and neither knows about everyone._ ”

“ _Good_ ,” Gimli answers, satisfied, and the guard seems to be even more confused now. However, when Legolas nods at him he turns around and leaves.

The dwarf barely manages to stifle a yawn. “You did say something about sleeping, Khathuzh – how about it?”

His elf smiles at him. “You are quite right, we should rest. Come, let us return to my rooms. There will be plenty of time for some spying after we have recuperated. Legolas raises and leads the way they have just come back, this time at a much quicker pace.

Gimli raises an eyebrow. “So hurried to get into bed?”

“But of course.” The melodic voice is mocking and the beautiful eyes are twinkling. “How could I not be upon the prospect of a handsome dwarf sharing it with me?”

The younger one blushes. He would try to suppress it, of course; however, every bit of his being is occupied with repressing the pain that wants to come forth by force. There is absolutely no good in letting this get to him, no matter how much he has (irrationally) wished to hear those words, and no matter how much the mocking tone has hurt. He does not even realize when they reach the suite, the elf at his side having gone strangely quiet, for he is still fighting with his own emotions, trying to push everything that he is – his very soul which he has bound to Legolas – back to where he has kept it locked away. A hesitant hand on his shoulder tears him from his struggle; and he is rather worried that he has not managed to shut everything aw-

“ _I am sorry, mellon nín, if I have offended you_ ,” Legolas says quietly. “ _I did not intend to. This was meant as a joke, nothing more._ ”

Which is exactly why it hurts so much!, Gimli’s heart screams, but he does not say it aloud. In fact he does not say anything, which obviously worries the elf more than any insulting retort ever could.

He leads them into the suite they have just left minutes ago, and offers the dwarf his bed to sleep in. “ _I can make do with the settee_ ,” he explains.

Gimli declines as quickly as possible. “I will take the settee, elf, and you sleep in your bed – no back talk! Now hush, the night is not getting any longer.” With that he marches towards the settee with a determination he usually shows only in battle, and pointedly sheds his boots and chainmail, putting his weapons where he can easily reach them (just in case), before climbing onto the soft cushions. He shifts and squirms a little, until he has found a comfortable position, and then closes his eyes after darting the elf one last meaningful glance.

Breathing as deeply and calmly as he manages to he listens to the soft sigh and the barely audible swaying of a door. A few more minutes he slowly cracks one eye open, half expecting to find the elf’s grinning face only inches in away.

However, the room is empty.

Not daring to think about how disappointing exactly that is Gimli turns around so that he faces the backrest of the settee and closes his eyes again. He lets his thoughts drift away, waiting to fall asleep, but once again Irmo denies him entry into his realm.

Instead he tries to recall everything that has happened since the company has parted ways with Gandalf, and how everything has come about.

Tiredly, but still too wound up to sleep, he thinks about how many things have not worked out the way he planned them, but how much luck he has had at the same time. Bilbo, for example. Gimli had been rather reluctant to let him in on his secret, despite knowing that it had to be done. Fortunately, the conversation with the hobbit had gone very well, much better than expected.

However, no matter how much he tries to think of other matters the elf’s words do not leave his mind.

_How could I not be upon the prospect of a handsome dwarf sharing it with me?_

Would he – _could_ he – really enjoy the presence of a _naug_ in his bed?

The firstborn are known to be far from fussy when it comes to choosing their bedmates. While it is rather rare, there actually are old stories of elves taking a child of Mahal as a lover. Legolas might really be interested in spending the night together – or not. Gimli knows that he must not hope, and even if that were the case, and his friend would express he were interested… the dwarf would not, could not, take that offer, not even for comfort. He may be able to live with being no more than friends; however, connecting in that intimate a way without a relationship – he cannot imagine he would survive that. There are lines better never crossed when it comes to dealing with setting your heart and soul upon a person that will never return your love.

Tiredly he stares at the soft cloth of the cushions right before his eyes, trying to think of other matters.

He has gone through more than enough emotional turmoil and pain for a day.

Remembering how much he had wished to see his elf just a few days ago he forces himself to let those dark thoughts slip away and concentrates on what is positive instead.

They are together again, after all. Legolas may not be laying in his arms, like he would wish, but he is no more than a door away. Gimli thinks about evil rings, and hobbits saving the world, and the willingness to walk straight into Mordor, basically courting death, needing no more than for his One to be fighting at his side.

He will be alright.

With that at the back of his mind he finally manages to follow Irmo’s beckoning.

Gimli wakes after a few hours with eyelids heavy like lead, and the feeling that he could sleep for two more _days_. However, there is someone poking his stomach, easily finding the point where he is most ticklish.

This tears him from Irmo’s arms quite violently and he shoots into a sitting position, squeaking rather un-manly.

Opening his eyes he comes face to face with a manically cackling elf, whose fingers are still wriggling into Gimli’s ribs. The dwarf gasps for breath, desperately trying to suppress any more squeals – that would just be too embarrassing, especially since all elves in the vicinity would hear them – and throws himself at the attacker, his own fingers tearing the soft boots from Legolas’ feet and then – barely touching – flying across the soles.

The elf breaks down in laughter, his own tickling attack fading as he writhes underneath Gimli’s skilful torture.

“Stop! Please, mellon nín, stop it!”

Gimli gives him a toothy grin. “Beg for it!”

“I beg you to stop,” Legolas gasps, barely managing to breathe, and the dwarf decides to show him some mercy. Letting go of the long leg he beats retreat, taking the boot with him.

The blonde darts him a dark glance. “What are you planning on doing with that?”

Remembering some of the rather rough parties in Erebor, held in the long years between the dragon’s fall and the War of the Ring, a dangerous grin spreads across Gimli’s face. “I will keep it until the feast, then I shall return it.” Pointedly shoving it into his pocket he then proceeds to put on his chainmail and his own boots, pretending to ignore the way Legolas is still staring at him disbelievingly.

The elf puts on his best dark face, which is not all that threatening considering that one of his delicate feet is still bare.

Shaking his head Gimli smiles fondly. “Are you not going to get yourself a complete pair of shoes?” he asks cheekily while making for the door.

“Pah.” Legolas holds his head high and marches towards the door, and not even the fact that one of his feet is bare is breaking his natural elegance.

When they pass the guards that have been positioned in front of the door in the meantime Gimli is hard pressed not to break down laughing upon seeing their dumbfounded faces. One of them moves to inform Legolas of his indisposition, but the prince graces him with an expression that makes the poor woodelf close his mouth quickly.

As soon as they have rounded a corner Legolas himself is the one who breaks into a fit of giggles, with Gimli chiming in soon. The pain from the past evening almost forgotten the dwarf enjoys how they have fallen into an easy comradeship once again.

Time flies upon their newest way to amuse themselves, more and more woodelves receiving terrible scowls upon their staring, and soon the feast has started.

After the first caskets of wine have been emptied – the two time travellers staying away from any alcohol stronger than mild ale – Gimli finally decides the time right to realize his plan, and pulls his friend’s soft boot from his pocket. Underneath Thranduil’s amused and Legolas’ shocked eyes he reaches for a bottle of quality Mirkwood wine and pours half of its content into the shoe.

“ _Good material, does not spill a bit_ ,” he acknowledges to the assembled (and mostly drunk) elves watching, which ends in pearls of laughter.

Giving his friend a toothy grin he then raises the boot to his lips and drinks the liquid, sure that he can easily hold that much alcohol even if he is to fight for his life in the morning.

As he downs the admittedly delicious wine he has a hard time not choking with laughter when he hears the partly disgusted, partly amused noises his joke is drawing from the celebrating elves. Finally he puts the boot back down, offering with a completely serious face: “ _A nice fragrance. They are freshly cleaned, I assume?_ ”

Legolas’ eyes are wide with surprise, and he seems to be lost for words.

Thranduil, on the other hand is not.

" _Of course they are, you know of Legolas’ vanity. And if it were different – you would most definitely have tasted the salty and caseous flavouring._ " 

Gimli finally loses his countenance and breaks down, quickly followed by his friend’s father.

The other elves simply stare, seeing their king laugh together with a dwarf who speaks their language, and at the expense of the prince no less. It does not take long until Legolas joins them, after he has recovered from his shock, and some of the celebrating elves rub their eyes, before deciding to go back to drinking. Which might be the reason for this strange scene in the first place, after all.

Meanwhile Gimli watches as Legolas slowly calms down, the bright laughter dying to a chuckle which is no less beautiful.

“Gimli, my friend, you truly are one of a kind,” the elven prince admits, the corners of his lips still twitching. “I certainly did not expect _that_.”

“I figured,” the dwarf replies, grinning. “It is… custom, you could almost say, at the more _unbridled_ parties of my kin, after all.” He then returns the boot to Legolas, fighting more laughter. “You can have it back now.”

Legolas stares at him, again.

Then, slowly, his lower lip begins to inch forward until his expression can only be described as sulking.

Thranduil snorts.

“ _You are influencing my son, dwarf, in ways which – as a King – I cannot condone._ ” He lowers his voice to a whisper, then, audible for only Gimli and Legolas to hear. “ _As a father, however, I very much approve of them. Many summers have passed since I have seen Legolas this free. Despite all the darkness you have gone through together, your friendship makes him shine in ways I had thought – and regretted – he had outgrown. Now, I think it is time for him to go fetch a new pair of boots, and for you to meet with the hobbit. May the Valar be with you in what follows, and may Elbereth guide you in your task. Take care – both of you; and expect my help as agreed upon._ ”

His hand falls heavily first on Gimli’s, then on Legolas’ shoulder, before he strides off.

The friends share a short glance and smile.

The elven King’s words seem to have warmed both of them, for Gimli sees a certain glint in the older one’s eyes, and a determination that was not there before.

“He is right,” the dwarf murmurs. “We must depart. I shall see you on the river.”

Legolas nods, and after they have shared a traditional dwarvish farewell gesture the younger one watches him as he returns to his chambers until his keen eyes lose sight of the lithe figure moving through the celebrating woodelves with ease. Only then does he make for the jail, knowing that he will see the other one again soon enough.

He is lucky, he supposes, that his sense of direction is better than Thorin’s, and that they have come this way before. Otherwise his attempt to find the place where his companions are being kept would have been a disaster.

When Bilbo comes scurrying Gimli is already waiting at an empty cell, leaning casually against the bars. From the outside, of course. His armour, as well as his weapons, are with the rest of the company’s; however, there is a dagger hidden beneath his trousers, strapped to his left thigh, and another in the leg of his right boot. (Fíli would be proud of him.) He listens to his companions’ lamenting and has to admit that he is rather relived not to have been locked away like them.

Bilbo gives him a short grin, winks at Legolas who is halfway hidden in the shadows (having arrived even before the hobbit – in clean boots), and moves on to Thorin’s cell; slipping the Ring into his pocket.

“You are not stuck in here, you know?” he murmurs and the bunch of keys in his fingers clinks. Gimli, who has followed him inconspicuously, barely manages to hide his smile when he sees the look on Thorin’s face. (How in Mahal’s name is he supposed to keep out of this?)

The hobbit then sets to freeing their leader and immediately a loud clamour arises, the other dwarves yelling in surprise and delight.

Gimli exchanges a brief glance with the elf and contemplates hitting his head against the nearest wall. Do those he calls friends – _family_ – really have so little common sense? (He must have spent too much time with Legolas and Aragorn, for acting so reasonably. It is almost embarrassing for the  khuzdul blood that flows through his veins.) However, before he gets the chance to try whether his dwarvish bone is thicker than the walls of Mirkwood or not, Bilbo hushes them fiercely. “Shh! There are guards nearby!”

It seems to do the trick and the others wait more or less patiently to be freed themselves, Gimli managing to mix with them without anyone ever finding out about how he has spent the last hours.

The company urges upwards, towards where they expect the exit (and straight into Legolas’ arms one might add) and amidst the huddle Glóin finds his son.

His relief is almost palpable.

“I was worried when I could not see your cell,” he murmurs quietly, so that none of the others hear.

Gimli gives him a reassuring smile. “There was no need to worry,” is all he says; waiting for Bilbo’s:

“Not that way – down here, follow me!”

They let him lead the way and hurry along, Dwalin already moaning the loss of his weapons. He gets another reprimand from the hobbit, being told to “Just be quiet, will you?” and snaps his mouth shut, a dark look on his face.

Gimli supresses a giggle and keeps moving; down down down; all the while feeling the elf’s sharp eyes following him further and further underground. Bilbo leads them into the wine cellar and it takes all of the time traveller’s self-control not to laugh aloud when his eyes fall upon the very drunk elves who have fallen asleep in their chairs, heads pillowed on their arms. It reminds him of the _conversation_ with Erestor, and, oh, he knows that the Firstborn do enjoy good wine as much as Mahal’s children cherish a nice ale.

Kíli, of course, is the first to complain. “I do not believe it! We are in the cellars!” he whispers furiously, the dwarves stopping to stare while Bilbo is trying to urge them on.

“Ye’re supposed to be leadin’ us out, not further in!” Bofur nags and when the hobbit opens his mouth to explain he is the one being shushed.

Shaking his head disbelievingly Gimli follows his companions to the barrels and already feels anticipation beginning to boil in his stomach. This ride is going to be _fun_ , despite the battle (which he is also looking forward to if he is honest.) He will just need a weapon…

“Everyone, climb in!” Bilbo orders when the dwarves begin examining the empty barrels. “Into the barrels, quickly!”

“Are you mad?” Dwalin protests immediately and Gimli sighs. He does not want to imagine how scared the hobbit must actually be of his own plan, with being mostly unable to swim due to his race and generally rather fearing deep water. And the company really is not helping with that.

Also, by now their escape from the cells must have been noticed and there are sleeping elves _in the same room_. (Who must be really far gone; not noticing a reluctant bunch of dwarves being stuffed into barrels.) Once again he doubts his companions’ sense. (Only because he knows just how much trust they should have into their burglar does not mean that they do. Still, they should remember where they are.)

“They will find us!”

Bilbo shakes his head. “They will not, I promise you! Please, please, you must trust me!”

When the dwarves cluster to discuss the matter – Gimli is already climbing into one of the barrels – the hobbit gives Thorin a desperate look.

Their leader does not even hesitate for a moment.

“Do as he says!”

Giving in the others abide, crawling into the wooden barrels that are piled up on a hatch – not that they would notice it. They manage to do so remarkably silently, still not waking the snoring elves, and Bofur is the one to poke his head back out when everyone is in. “What do we do now?”

The other dwarves follow suit, which must really make quite a sight.

“Hold your breath,” is the only warning they get before Bilbo turns the lever.

“Hold me breath? What do ye mean?” Bofur manages to call – shutting him up really is an impossible task – before the hatch tilts and everyone is occupied with yelling and ducking into the barrels and _how is it even possible that those elves still have not woken up?_

The barrels drop into the water of the river running through the underground tunnel, bobbing up for a few times. Of course by the time they have managed to move their vessels upright all of them are soaked to the bone, the cold making Gimli shiver. Realizing that the current is carrying him downstream he uses his hands to paddle to the nearest steep wall and holds onto it, watching as his companions do the same. Someone needs to take care of Bilbo, after all.

“We wait for Mister Baggins!” Thorin commands only moments later and the company reacts by holding onto each other, trying to keep the barrels beneath the hatch despite the current.

They do not have to wait for long until the wooden door opens again and Bilbo comes sliding down the descent – backwards – before dropping into the water like a stone.

For a moment Gimli is frozen with fear before he sees the hobbit come up, gasping for air and looking even more drenched than the dwarves. He clings to Nori’s barrel, which is the closest, still occupied with _breathing_.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that with the boot was _not_ my idea... apparently a good (and rather crazy ^^) friend of my father's drank red wine from his cowboy boots when they were young (so quite some time ago :p). No idea why she did that to herself... and no idea how my father got rid of the smell afterwards xD
> 
> Anyway, I liked the idea ^^


	16. Far down the river

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **16\. Far down the river**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 9: Barrels Out of Bond_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> So, when I watched the second movie I _really_ enjoyed the barrel scene, and kept imagining what Legolas would d were Gimli with them... I looked forward to writing it.
> 
> Only to find that I didn't particularly like what I _had_ written in the end...
> 
> So, this is definitely not one of my best chapters.  
> I'm sorry...
> 
> Hope you enjoy it none the less!!

### 16\. Far down the river

“Well done, Master Baggins!” Thorin praises the hobbit; however, Gimli doubts that their burglar has a mind for that at the moment.

Their leader then urges them on and they let go of each other’s barrels and the ledges they have been holding on to, trying to pick up speed by paddling instead. The river leads further underground; although the colour of the stone walls is already brightening up. When they pass a side tunnel that opens up next to them without a warning, its ground a little above the water level, Gimli catches a tiny glance of elves hurrying along, and shouts a warning to the others.

“They are already looking for us!”

Thorin tries to accelerate their pace again when suddenly they are blinded by bright daylight, shooting out of the tunnel and into the open. “Hold on!” he barely manages to yell before he is being drawn down a small waterfall, and everyone else with him.

Gimli is still worrying about Bilbo, yet he barely manages to suppress a wild cry of joy when he is falling, his stomach lurching; before suddenly gravity takes him back and pushes him underwater, soaking him even further, and, oh, _this is fun_ -

Watching his companions, who had not expected a ride like this, is even more amusing.

The river tears them along, barrels bumping against the hard stone shores and each other, tilting dangerously, barely being kept upright, bobbing up and down – Bilbo is still holding onto Nori’s barrel, holding on for dear life-

Gimli turns around to see Legolas emerging from a small door and only seconds later an elvish horn resounds across the valley of the Forest River.

The dwarves come shooting around a corner and watch in horror as a heavily armoured elf (the lands around Thranduil’s realm truly are not safe) moves another lever and a latticed gate of heavy metal closes before their very noses. Thorin is the first to reach it and had he been just a tiny little bit faster, he would have slipped through. As it is, however, he crashes against the bars and everyone else into him, the water running unimpededly towards the Long Lake and the barrels with their exceptional loads being trapped.

The elves guarding the gate – and yes, Thranduil does make an effort to protect his people and kingdom – draw their swords, ready to fight the dwarves (or at least detain them until their captain and prince arrive) and Gimli’s eyes fall upon Bilbo who is submerged up to his neck, only the soft face surrounded by wet curls poking out. He is staring at the guards wide-eyed, and openly terrified.

Suddenly his gaze finds the time traveller’s and he is clearly prompting him to _do something, you knew this was going to happ_ -

Without a warning, one of the elves makes a tiny pained sound and falls, an arrow sticking in his back.

The orcs’ timing is impeccable.

(Sometimes Gimli does not know whether to be amused or sickened by his black humour.)

The _yrch_ immediately attack the guards who have not anticipated an onset like that, and however good they may be – none are able to cope with both the surprise attack and the highly superior number of foes. The foul creatures are pouring over the defensive wall and towards where the dwarves are stuck, slaughtering every elf on their way. The company watches in horror, knowing very well that they will be easy prey. They do not have any weapons apart from a few daggers and Sting, and even those halfway hidden beneath the bridge are an easy mark for any arrow, stuck in their barrels as they are.

Gimli’s eyes are darting around, knowing that Legolas and Tauriel will arrive just in time; and at the moment the orcs are occupied with butchering the elves, they will not attack them.

Still, without his ax and even the possibility to run, he feels terribly vulnerable.

Also, he knows that the orcs are not here for Thranduil’s people, but for his own company (and he feels really bad that those elves are being slaughtered because of their presence). Also, he reminds himself, he cannot rely completely on what has happened in the past, the tiny change that his being here has brought about – it might be the difference between two time-lines, between life and death. For him, and for either of his companions as well. The warrior’s fingers are holding onto the edge of his barrel in a white-knuckled grip, his hands shaking with the need to do something, to help the elves, to help Legolas’ people, they are their allies, it is all of them against the Dark Lord Sauron!, he cannot watch them die like that, even though they are pointy-eared bastards who would have incarcerated him without hesitation, who would have let him rot, but still he cannot let them die, oh, he wishes he could do something, and where is his ax, he needs his ax-

Bolg (as Gimli knows the leader of the orcs to be called) snarls some words in the black speech and several of the fell creatures turn away from the elves’ corpses and make towards where the dwarves are stuck.

One comes falling down from the bridge, a possibly poisoned blade in hand, ready to stab Glóin.

Gimli has already reached for one of his daggers, ready to save his father’s life, when Bilbo buries Sting in the attacker’s chest; while Dwalin finishes off another with a well-placed elbow.

The time traveller’s eyes are darting around frantically, fingers still clutching the dagger – the one from his thigh, of course, he could not reach the one in his boot, not confined in a barrel like this. Oh, he should have thought of that! Angry at himself he tries to assess the situation. He is used to the thick and chaos of battle, to the feeling of being surrounded by a number of foes far surpassing their own numbers. He knows the uncertainty – who of those he has lost sight of are no longer among the living? – and hopelessness; but never has he been in a situation like this.

At the freaking _mercy_ of mahaldamned orcs. Not even able to properly defend himself.

(If these are hopeless circumstances, Helm’s Deep was a stroll.)

He is turning his head so fast his neck hurts, trying to see any orc who might attack them in the next moments, trying to get a glimpse of Legolas who must be approaching the battlefield already, trying to tell what his companions are doing-

He sees it in Kíli’s eyes the moment his young friend’s gaze falls onto the lever.

More swiftly than anyone would have thought the barely grown-up dwarf capable of the dark-haired prince manages to climb out of his barrel and jump to the shore. Gimli does not manage to watch him all the time, he is occupied with helping Dwalin dispose of yet another attacker and wrenching the crude weapon from hands growing limp; however, he does observe as Kíli catches a sword thrown by Dwalin and manages to defend himself, killing three orcs on his way up the bridge.

(The fourth one falls prey to one of Fíli’s knives, the blonde’s worried eyes never leaving his brother.)

Kíli has almost reached the lever, then, and Gimli’s gaze inevitably rushes across the attackers when a _memory_ hits his brain, until his eyes reach Bolg, who has nocked an arrow and is aiming at the black-haired prince-

The time traveller’s hand is shaking as he is fighting the urge to throw the dagger, he could do it, he could save his friend the pain, but he knows that he _cannot_. He cannot change history like that, not yet; he cannot kill Bolg before his time. Thus he has to watch – just like Merry and Pippin had to, all this time ago, watching as arrow after arrow came flying at Boromir – and all he can do is avert his gaze when the orc hits true.

Kíli groans quietly – surprised – and then falls to the floor.

Fíli immediately calls his brother’s name, shocked, and Thorin follows suit.

For a few moments the world seems to have frozen.

Gimli’s eyes are fixed on the wounded princeling and thus he cannot miss the orc coming up behind him, ready to kill the defenceless dwarf-

Until there is suddenly an arrow sticking in the thick neck and the attacker is falling over, rolling down the stairs.

The time traveller feels his heart drop to his boots.

They are here.

Tauriel he sees first, light-footedly dashing into their field of vision and taking a moment to assess the situation before killing the next orc who dares to try and sneak up on Kíli. The dwarves’ eyes are wide with surprise (and quite possibly a tiny little bit of relief) when the captain of the guard – who has earned herself that title with sweat and blood – immediately throws herself into battle, ready to take the remaining orcs on alone.

Not that she has to.

Bolg obviously orders to kill her; however, those under his command are not fast enough.

Without any kind of warning Legolas, accompanied by more guards, comes darting out of the bush and for a moment Gimli’s heart stops.

His world stops spinning in that blink of an eye when his One arrives; then the moment has passed.

He sees the short flash of pain in the blue eyes when they fall upon all the fallen elves.

Then the first arrow hits true and Gimli’s body is taking up all functions again. Breathlessly the dwarf watches as the _Khathuzh_ he has chosen as his One rages among their foes, all the while moving swiftly and elegantly. It looks almost like a dance, and nothing like the struggle the falling guards had given.

Gimli feels almost proud.

This is no mere Silvan elf, no mere guard.

This is also no mere elven princeling (like the one who opposed Bolg the last time).

This is Legolas Thranduilion of the Fellowship of the Ring who has fought against orcs and uruk-hai and all the odds out there; who has stood proudly for the men of Rohan and Gondor; who has ridden with the Dead.

His arrows hit fast and true, his fighting knives show no mercy and whenever he draws Orcrist he brings terror upon his foes.

Gimli keeps watching him because it is _delightful_ – and because it distracts him from the fact that Legolas is clearly going to be winning this round. After all, how could he keep up; trapped and with no proper weapons to talk of?

In the meantime Kíli has managed to pull himself upright and, groaning with pain, he turns the lever.

The door opens and once again the river tears the barrels along, throwing them down another small waterfall and further towards the Long Lake.

Bolg reacts immediately and the orcs move to follow them.

Gimli has no mind for that, though.

His eyes are on Kíli who crawls to the edge of the small bridge and then jumps into one of the empty barrels, the shaft of the arrow still sticking out of his thigh breaking in the process.

The time traveller flinches, knowing how much this must hurt. His friend still clings to the rim of his barrel, barely conscious, and lets the water take him away.

Gimli turns around, gives Legolas one last glance – their eyes lock and there is a sweet smile on the elf’s lips that seems to stop the world for another moment – before he is falling down the waterfall as well, being pulled along by the current.

Another waterfall follows suit and they do have a great advantage: falling happens fast.

Still the orcs manage to keep up with them, running along the shores and not limited by the speed of the water, or the channel.

Whenever they see an opportunity they lunge themselves at the dwarves shooting past them and – in most cases – just fall into the water due to some minor (or major) miscalculation. Gimli, who has done rather stupid lunging himself, manages to keep the biting comments out of his mind. Arrows come flying as well; however, the company has more luck than judgment for the arrows only ever hit the wooden barrels and never flesh and bone. (Legolas would not have missed, of course. Luckily he is on their side.)

Soon he and Tauriel come running after them as well; while Thorin manages to get hold of an orc blade.

What provides the greatest danger are probably the branches crossing the river which the orcs are climbing, waiting for a dwarf to come into killing distance. Since they do not have to follow the bends of the stream they can easily be fast enough to reach those branches before the first of the company comes shooting by.

Others try their luck from the shore.

Legolas, Tauriel and the guards are still creating a bloodbath even from the distance – and steadily drawing closer – while those dwarves who are attacked are not idle either.

Gimli stands up as well as is possible in a bobbing barrel and then ducks, easily dodging the orc who has lunged himself at the time traveller. His hand shoots forward and grabs his attacker’s arm; squeezing it with all his might and pushing the orc’s head underwater at the same time. When the stinking fingers let go of the crude ax they have been carrying he catches it and lets go of the corpse.

Those orcs clearly cannot swim.

He weighs the ax in his hands, trying to find the mass centre and get a feel for the weapon. Its quality is far from what he is used to; however, he is armed again now and that is all he needs.

(For the moment, at least.)

He watches as his companions are struggling to gain weapons as well, Thorin sacrificing the one he has already acquired to save Balin – those orcish swords are actually balanced well enough to be thrown with precision – and getting another one in return. He quickly tosses it at Dwalin, who catches it easily and passes it along to Nori. The thief then throws it towards Fíli and the blonde neatly disposes of the next attacker.

In the meantime Gimli has gotten the chance to draw the bit of the ax he has gotten hold of through the leg of an orc lingering at the shore he is shooting past, and to take off the head of another who tries to attack him; grabbing his mace and tossing it at Dori who is closes to him.

Dwalin once again fights one who has fallen from the cliff that forms the shore at that point and landed straight on the almost bald-headed dwarf. Bad for the unlucky fellow, Gimli decides, as he watches Dwalin take him apart with his bare hands; the struggle ending with one orc less and one ax more.

Thorin yells at them to cut the log that has grown across the river and where half a dozen of foes are waiting.

Dwalin and Gimli do as prompted and the time-traveller does not have to turn around to know that the wood has given in behind them, drawing the orcs into a drenched and dark death. The red-haired warrior then takes on the next foe, cutting his head off with one blow and grabbing two swords in return. Both come flying towards two more attackers only moments later, one ending up in an eye and the other in the stomach. (Poor sod, his death will come slowly and painfully.)

The time traveller watches as Dwalin tosses Bombur the ax he has just used to cut the log and stares in disbelief – he has heard the story, of course, but that does not make it any less hilarious – as the not exactly inconsiderable weight of the redheaded dwarf is being lifted up into the air when his enemy’s speer gets stuck in a branch and the barrel at the same time. He then makes short work of more orcs than any of them have managed to by _rolling over them_ until his barrel finally stops rolling, lying on the shore.

Gimli almost feels the others hold their breaths while he himself has stuffed a bloodied fist into his mouth, desperately trying not to laugh out loud. The urge gets even harder to fight when suddenly the barrel has arms and legs and is spinning, two small axes slicing up another seven orcs.

Gimli turns around then, and his eyes catch Legolas’ who is not far behind them.

The elf’s blue orbs are sparkling with supressed laughter as well and he gives his friend a wink, before focusing on burying an arrow in the next exposed neck only to pull it out again and nock it; shooting down the orc who had approached behind the first one.

Gimli smiles at that.

This is how Legolas fights, and Gimli would be able to recognize him in his sleep. To fight _with_ him, perfectly in tune.

He turns around just in time to see Bombur jump into another empty barrel, surprisingly elegantly.

They rush down another waterfall and suddenly-

Legolas is there, swiftly jumping straight into the water only to land on the heads of two dwarves.

Gimli has heard the story before, of course, and, oh, he has looked forward to seeing it! What had _not_ been part of his plan was that the elf might change his mind about his choice of vessel. Instead of Dwalin he has opted for his time travelling friend and now Gimli’s head is bent at a strange angle, the sole of Legolas’ soft boot arching against the line of his skull. For a moment he is tempted to reach up an _tickle_ in revenge for being refused to watch the show, but he refrains from giving in.

There is too much at stake here, and he would never want to disappoint his friend.

So he holds on to his barrel instead and enjoys the looks on his companions’ faces, especially the one on Dori’s who is in the same hilarious position as him.

When a stone comes up in the middle of the river and either of them is being pulled to a different side Legolas withdraws his foot from Gimli’s head. His (barely noticeable) weight now on just one leg and only Dori’s head he keeps firing arrow after arrow, unfazed.

The red-haired dwarf smiles.

This is Legolas to a tee.

Many an orc falls an easy victim to his impeccable aim – sometimes two being felled by the same arrow – and the time-traveller struggles to keep his concentration on the still lasting battle instead of his One, however nice he may be to look at. (No, this is not very dwarvish behaviour. Not at all. He cannot quite help it, though. He has willingly given his heart and soul to an elf, he is called Elvellon – his change in priorities and views does not really come as a surprise.)

In the meantime Legolas has leaped to the shore and is travelling on solid ground again, taking the lives of foes wherever he goes.

Suddenly an orc throws himself at Gimli and his concentration comes rushing back, focusing on fighting and killing and _staying alive_ again. (This habit of watching the elf is getting more dangerous with every moment he allows himself to let it keep going.) With the reflexes of one who has fought and lived through too many hopeless battles his thick, iron muscles tense up and the ax shoots forward, the blunt eye crashing against the orc’s scull and shattering it. Gimli does not get the chance to enjoy this kill, however, for another foe comes leaping towards him and a third one is (quite slowly, he might add) shooting arrows into his direction; while his ax is still embedded in the first orc’s head. He has smashed the frontal bone and shoved the nasal bone up into the brain; taking the foul creature out before the rusty metal had turned the rest of the nervous cells into useless mash. In the process the head of the ax had gone in far enough to get stuck between the intact reminder of the skull and huge bone fragments. This is bad.

The warrior’s thick – and uncomfortably unarmoured – fingers grab the haft more tightly and he pulls the dead orc upwards against gravity and heavy water, using its body as a shield against the arrows and the one who is throwing himself at him. The shot attacks stop soon and Gimli does not have to look to know that Legolas has disposed of the archer; while the other orc has been holding on to the corpse and making his way around it slowly, clinging tightly to the body and the barrel. He seems to have been struck by an arrow of his own ally; however, it has clearly not done enough damage – the dwarf sees the end of a black and poorly made shaft sticking out of a dark upper arm. Once again he is reminded how little regard orcs who have been given clear orders hold for their own lives – running in order to save themselves would mean death by their leaders instead.

The fell creature’s face is twisted with pain, anger and long bygone torment; mouth slightly opened. Saliva is trickling from between the sharp teeth and the attacker’s breath is foul. One of the black-skinned hands loosens its grip on the barrel’s rim and shoots forward towards Gimli’s neck, all weapons clearly lost in the struggle against the water.

Heavy heartedly the time-traveller lets go of the ax he has acquired and been getting acquainted with (the decision being made within a split second) and grabs the orc by its collar. Following Dwalin’s example he slams his own head against the creature’s, then easily loosening the second hand of his dazed foe and letting it slip into the water; along with the one which has still got the ax embedded in its head.

Looking around Gimli gets a glimpse of Legolas crossing the river by using the dwarves’ heads as stepping stones; then yet another foe comes flying towards him. He hardly believes his luck when this one has an ax as well, and one meant to be wielded with two hands at that. Twice as spurred as before he waits for the unfortunate bastard to come close enough and then twists in a way that is close to impossible in a barrel, the blade of the ax whizzing by – missing his shoulders by inches – and the body of the attacker crashing straight into him. Easily one of his thick hands goes for a scrawny neck, while the fingers of the other curl themselves around the handle of the weapon. Within seconds he has wrestled the ax free and taken a proper hold on the grip, pushing the orc who is still gasping for air into the river.

His heart almost stops when he raises his gaze to find Legolas upon a cliff, battling one of Bolg’s underlings – and another one creeping up from behind. There is no way the elf is going to finish the first one off in time, and the other already raises his sword. Gimli opens his mouth to scream when a blade comes whirling past him and hits the second orc squarely in the chest.

Looking around wildly he finds Thorin weapon-less, an unreadable expression in his blue eyes.

 

_TBC_


	17. And while they fight we shall aid them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **17\. And while they fight we shall aid them**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers – Chapter 2: The Riders of Rohan_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Ahh, yes.  
> Now, _this_ chapter was a lot of fun to write! (I can't help it, with those two... fights are _fun_ :D)
> 
> Also, it's a rather long one. (In comparison :p)

### 17\. And while they fight we shall aid them

The dwarves have managed to escape the orcs for the moment and Legolas stops as well, knowing that he will have to turn around and report to his father.

He is staring after them, frowning, and only Gimli knows that this is not because of anger about their flight. His eyes drilling into bright orbs that he is being drawn farther away from by the second he mouths “Esgaroth” and catches a tiny smile on the elf’s lips before the river whips him around a corner.

Everything quiets down then, the others letting their rapid heart rates drop and trying to wring at least their braids out, drenched as they are.

Gimli, on the other hand, refrains from doing so. He knows that everything should be fine now, but he is still on alert, eyes roaming the shores in search of unexpected attackers.

He would _not_ have called “Anything behind us?” so loudly that it echoes along the cliffs they are passing now, up and down the river. Oh, his companions really should do something about their vexing urge to shout about when trying to run from orcs! Really, do they have _no_ common sense?

Obviously not, for the yelled “Nothing that I can see” follows suit.

Oh in Mahal’s name!

“I think we’ve outrun the orcs!” Bofur happily states a moment later.

“Not for long, we have lost the current,” Thorin grumbles, before telling them to make for the shore…

… loudly, of course.

Sometimes the need to try and beat some sense into his King is almost unbearable. Wistfully he thinks about travelling with men, hobbits, an elf and a wizard instead of a group of dwarves. Back then _he_ used to be the weakest link in the chain when it came to being quiet. Tiredly he paddles towards the shore; watching with squinted eyes as Kíli stumbles out of his barrel, clearly in pain.

Thorin does not seem to see it, however. “Onto your feet!”

Bofur is the one who insists that the youngest one’s leg needs binding, and Gimli immediately supports him.

“There is an orc pack on our tail,” the King instantly declines. “Keep moving!”

Angrily the time-traveller listens to the others discussing how far off the mountain still is and whether they will manage to outrun the orcs, while tearing a piece of fabric off his coat and handing it to the young prince. Kíli darts him a thankful glance, not even attempting to hide his pain from him like he would hide it from others.

The red-haired dwarf gives his young friend a sad smile. He looks at the wound, gritting his teeth when he realizes that they will have to push the arrow through the thigh in order to get it out, seeing as it is stuck halfway through.

Kíli is pale; obviously he has just come to the same conclusion. Then he stares at the older one. “Did you… you know… know?” he asks hesitantly.

Gimli feels his heart drop his boots. “I am sorry,” is all he says, but the prince seems to understand the need to let the events unfold for he gives him a soft smile.

“It is quite okay,” he murmurs, while the others’ conversation has turned to the lack of weapons now.

The time-traveller ignores them, still focussed on his young friend’s wound.

Finally Thorin gives in. “Bind his leg, quickly. You have two minutes.”

Gimli sets put to finish doing just that, not even bothering to turn his head when he feels he is being watched. It is about time Bard shows up, dusk is approaching quickly.

He only flinches and jumps to stand when the bowman puts an arrow into the dead branch Dwalin is holding – quite nicely, really (still, nothing compared to Legolas’ skill. Of course. He might be a little biased when it comes to archery.)

Despite the man’s threat Balin’s keen eyes immediately find his barge and within minutes they are negotiating instead of exchanging threats. Really, it is quite handy to have an advisor of Balin’s calibre available.

It is cold on the boat, and no one knows whether to trust Bard (no one but Gimli, who has talked to the man countless times before he died of old age, as men do). However, they need him, need his ship as much as his knowledge about these waters and the possibility to get into Laketown unseen.

Certainly, hiding in barrels smelling of wine, and being showered with stinking fish is not exactly Gimli’s dream way of travelling, but one cannot have everything, especially not when trying to take back a mountain conquered by a dragon without all of Middle-Earth noticing.

Well.

It gets even worse when Bard smuggles them into his house through the _toilet_ (the water of the lake may be icy, but at least it washes away the stench of fish), yet all of them can see the necessity, so they do as they are told.

Gimli climbs out last, and he actually smiles when his eyes fall on Bain who is still trying to help them despite the other dwarves’ rather hostile behaviour. The time-traveller remembers him and his peaceful rule over Dale which he had taken on after his father’s death, and how he had always shown Durin’s folk kindness and offered help whenever necessary.

It is why Gimli bows, and says “Gimin, at your service,” before climbing the stairs.

“B-Bain, at yours,” the boy answers, confused, and Gimli gives him another smile, which might actually be recognizable underneath all the beard.

Bard distributes dry clothes and the red-haired dwarf gratefully sheds his wet gear, even the chainmail, before wringing out the dripping beard.

As the company enjoys drying once more two of them choose to stand by the window, apart from all others.

Thorin’s eyes find the windlance, and Gimli watches as their leader and Balin tell Bilbo about its significance. The hobbit darts the time-traveller a short glance, but then shrinks back into the shadows when the dwarves launch into a discussion with Bard, about the aim of man, and missing scales.

Rolling his eyes Gimli ignores them, observing Kíli instead.

The young prince looks sick, a forerunner of what will follow.

Poisoned arrows struck down many an elf during the War of the Ring, and he fears for his friend, despite knowing that Tauriel will come in time to save him.

Tiredly he watches as his companions reach for the weapons Bard offers them, complaining about their quality. Knowing what grand idea Thorin and Dwalin are going to come up with he still reaches for one of the blacksmith’s hammers, weighing it. He would fight well with this weapon, heavy as it may be – probably better than with what the city armoury has to offer.

Sighing, and knowing that he will be unable to stop the Master from finding out about them, Gimli follows his companions as they sneak from Bard’s house as soon as the Bowman has left, no matter how hard his children are trying to stop them. He climbs into the armoury, after Nori has gained them entry, and reaches for an ax that looks quite nicely manufactured – for a weapon of men. He tries to run when Kíli’s strength fails, like he is supposed to, and lets himself be taken capture once _again_.

This is becoming almost routine, that they are being led off somewhere, and Gimli scowls fiercely as he remembers the trolls, Goblin Town and Legolas’ squad. The latter kind of captivity had definitely been his favourite, which is not much of a surprise, really.

The guards bring them before the Master, an unlikeable man who takes pleasure in the misfortunes of others, and the time-traveller amuses himself with the image of burying his fist in those layers of years spent eating and doing nothing. Would it ripple, like water?

He loses himself in that most satisfying fantasy until Dwalin suddenly calls attention to Thorin, and who he is.

The royal dwarf then presents his finest rhetorical skills, and it is obvious that he has been educated by the best.

(And Balin is nothing short of the best, really.)

The Company listens in awe, their love for their leader burning strong, as Thorin convinces the men of Laketown to help them, despite Bard’s desperate attempts to tell them what might happen – what _will_ happen, as Gimli reminds himself.

“I speak to the Master of the men of the lake. Will you see the prophecy fulfilled? Will you share in the great wealth of our people?”

The dwarves watch as the Master hesitates, and the time-traveller closes his eyes.

“What say you?”

_What say you? What say you??? I am Isildur's heir. Fight for me, and I will hold your oaths fulfilled! What say you?_ rings through Gimli’s mind as the Master gives his answer.

“I say unto you...welcome! Welcome and rise! Welcome, King under the Mountain!”

The crowd cheers, and as Bard closes his eyes in defeat one single dwarf regrets that he cannot save those men for the sake of Middle-Earth, and a guilt that will accompany him for the rest of his life settles on his shoulders.

The master takes them to the armoury then, and lets them choose suits and weapons, before inviting them to feast with him.

While all other members of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company enjoy this unexpected opportunity and regale themselves with fine food and wine, Gimli sits in silence. He eats to stave off hunger, but does not join his friends in feasting. Instead he watches the way Kíli grimaces whenever he thinks it will go unnoticed, or how Fíli’s eyes rarely stray from his brother. He observes as Bilbo stares at Thorin the same way, and does not miss the cunning glint in the Master’s eye as he schemes his next steps.

The time-traveller’s thoughts are racing, twisting and turning around his fear for his princeling friend, his plans for the upcoming battle, the men of Laketown who fill fall prey to the dragon’s wrath, Legolas’ company he can barely wait to enjoy again, and his desperate hope for an answer from the Lady Galadriel.

When more and more members of the Company let Irmo take them for the night Gimli opts to stand guard instead, finding a dark corner in the room filled with snoring dwarves.

The shadows hide him from the prying eyes of Alfrid when he returns to watch his sleeping guests for a few minutes, and strong fingers are wrapped around the hilt of a man-made ax while Gimli prays to Mahal and Elbereth that the Lady Galadriel will send word soon, and that her message will carry the permission he is hoping for.

Losing Fíli and Kíli, and Thorin once more… would be agony.

Having to fight the War of the Ring again, watching so many die and Frodo waste away… would be unbearable.

Those dark thoughts keep him company for the rest of the night, all his worst fears sitting with him as the rest of the town sleeps.

Soon, however, dawn comes and the dwarves awake, none of them ever catching the dark desperation in Gimli’s eyes. Instead they pack their belongings, and gather at the pier where a boat is waiting.

As the Company queues to climb into it Gimli chooses a spot as the last of the group, having no intentions of ever following their example, while he shakes his head about the fact that no one but Bilbo notices Bofur’s absence.

Thorin, who is wearing a regal red coat, stops Kíli – as expected – from entering the barge.

“Not you. We must travel at speed, you will slow us down.”

Kíli, pale as he may be, shines with indignation and disbelief.

“What are you talking about? I am coming with you!”

“No.”

“I am going to be there when that door is opened. When we first look upon the halls of our fathers, Thorin…”

His uncle turns to look at him, and his eyes are as soft and understanding as his face is hard.

“Kíli, stay here. Rest. Join us when you are healed.”

Compassion floods Gimli when he sees the devastated look on Kíli’s face, but he knows that this is for the better. If he goes… the young prince will die. Therefore he watches with relief as Óin, as good a healer as dwarvish caverns ever give, announces that he will stay with the wounded.

Fíli, in the meantime, does not give up yet, for – as Gimli knows – he would go nowhere without his brother, and never would he leave Kíli behind like this.

“Uncle, we grew up on tales of the mountain! Tales you told us. You cannot take that away from him! I will carry him if I must!”

He looks to the time-traveller for help, but the red-haired dwarf shakes his head with a barely perceptible movement.

“One day you will be King,” Thorin murmurs, “and you will understand. I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of one dwarf... not even my own kin.”

Fíli’s eyes are bright with anger as he climbs off the barge, and his uncle moves to stop him.

“Fíli! Do not be a fool. You belong with the company.”

“I belong with my brother,” the blonde hisses angrily as he joins Kíli.

Gimli, who has not entered the boat yet, moves to stand with the princes and his own uncle.

“I will stay with them and protect them if necessary,” he promises, and despite the reluctance in Thorin’s features there is relief in his eyes.

The two brothers stare at their friend, their disappointment still heavy on their minds, and Gimli’s hand finds Kíli’s shoulder.

“He is right to leave you here,” he murmurs. “You are in no condition to tempt fate. If anyone, or any _thing_ attacks – you cannot defend yourself. You are in enough danger as it is, since the arrow was poisoned. I do understand your disappointment, but if you went with them – you would die.”

Fíli pales, and rests his forehead against his brother’s.

“You should have gone,” Kíli murmurs.

“I am going nowhere without you.” The blonde tries his best to smile, determination and fear darkening his eyes. “I wish Uncle would have let us come, but… if what Giml- … Gimin says is true, I will _make_ you stay if necessary. I am not going to let you risk your life… not even for Erebor.”

But that is what you are going to do, Gimli wants to scream at them, you will both give your lives for Erebor! – yet he says nothing, but grinds his teeth and thanks Mahal for Óin’s deafness.

In the meantime the master sends the Company off with his best wishes, and Kíli watches them leave with disappointment etched deeply into his features.

Then Bofur appears, having missed the departure, and tries to run after them, and-

Kíli breaks down.

Having anticipated this Gimli is quick to catch him, and together with Fíli he manages to stabilize the young prince. He had known that this would happen, yes, and still – it is hard to watch, and he prays that everything will go as planned.

Bofur’s eyes are wide with fear.

“What’re we supposed to do now?”

“We need a place where we can stay, and look after him,” Óin grumbles as he looks around.

Of course, the Master and Alfrid have long left.

“We could ask Bard,” Bofur suggests, voice bordering on hysteric.

“Bard?” Kíli coughs. “He would never let us stay! Not after what happened!”

“We have to try,” Fíli decides. “You are sick. Come. Can you walk if we support you?”

“I- I think so, yes,” the young dwarf pants and with the help of his brother and the time-traveller he slowly makes the long, hard way to Bard’s house.

Bofur is the one to knock.

When the door is opened the Bowman is righteously indignant, still he lets them enter when he sees Kíli.

Gimli, knowing that Bolg will already be on his way to Laketown, tries his best to help Óin in his attempt to save the prince. The black-haired dwarf is writhing in pain, and the healer at his wits’ end.

The time-traveller is almost shaking with impatience.

Oh, if Legolas and Tauriel were already here, then could fight, do something, _anything_!

Instead he watches as Bofur leaves to find Kingsfoil and his fingers meet Fíli’s in a calming gesture.

The blonde is desperate, and fearful tears are glistening in his eyes.

Gulping heavily, Gimli turns his head until his ear almost touches the prince’s. “Two elves are to come to Laketown. One will help him,” he discloses before moving to hold Kíli’s shoulders.

“Hang on,” he pleads.

No, knowing that Tauriel will arrive in time does not make this any less terrifying or heart-breaking.

Suddenly a quake shakes the house, and everyone freezes.

Gimli closes his eyes, knowing that he has finally condemned the people of Esgaroth to their death, while Fíli tells Bard to leave.

“And go where? There is nowhere to go,” the Bowman shakes his head.

“Are we going to die, Da?” Tilda asks, voice shaking.

“No, darling,” her father lies.

“The dragon, it is going to kill us!”

The dwarf watches Bard’s resolve grow, as it settles in his eyes. He reaches for the last black arrow of his father, Girion, and Fíli’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Not if I kill it first.”

Gimli’s heart is light with relief and heavy with sorrow at the same time. As the Bowman leaves, his son in tow, he thinks about how killing Smaug will make Bard someone he never wanted to be – a leader. Although he was born the son of a Lord, he has always seen himself as common folk. Also, the responsibility to kill that dragon rests heavily on his shoulders. His eyes betray that he knows – if he does not take out that dragon it will kill every single one of the people living here, including his children.

Therefore he is ready to do what he has spent his life wishing would never be necessary, and Gimli feels with him.

He, too, has fought many battles and killed many foes for the sake of others.

He is a dwarf, though, and readiness for war runs through his veins with his blood.

Closing his eyes Gimli tries to focus on helping Óin, which is harder than ever.

The _yrch_ are here, he almost feels their presence, and his blood is boiling with the _urge_ to fight.

Mentally preparing for combat he makes sure his chainmail will protect him as it should, and his eyes keep darting to where the ax from the city armoury is leaning against the wall.

When they hear a strange, shuffling noise Sigrid steps out of the door, asking for her father, and Gimli resigns.

He darts over to his ax and grabs it as the roof cracks, moving to stand in front of Kíli while he motions for Tilda to hide. Fíli darts him a worried glance, but he has got no time to explain.

“Orcs,” is all he can say before Sigrid screams in terror and rushes back in, trying desperately to close the door.

She manages to keep the attacker out for the time being, but another one comes in through a second door and Gimli throws himself at the foul creature, being the only one in this room who is properly armed.

The orc, clearly not expecting to be attacked, barely manages to parry a fast blow towards his head. As a third one breaks through the roof and the first one gets past Sigrid he starts a second attack – his way of fighting focusses on strength, not speed, and works best in the chaos of a battlefield, not in a situation like this – drawing the ax into a semicircle to evade the orcish blade coming towards him and letting the bit cut into a stunted knee.

The creature breaks down, howling with pain and surprise, and does not stay in this world for much longer.

“One,” the time-traveller counts as Fíli tackles another and Sigrid tries hiding underneath the table.

Where is Legolas?

Another orc makes it in through the roof, and the blunt side of Gimli’s ax crashes into a deformed head.

“Two.”

Tilda tries to fight one of the attackers off by throwing a plate, before hiding with Sigrid, while Bain desperately throws the bench at it in his attempt to save his sisters.

Gimli’s next opponent manages to dodge the first blow.

Two more come in through the roof, and the time-traveller curses this ax which limits his options even more than expected.

One orc overturns the table and Gimli lets up on his chosen foe, rushing to the girls’ rescue instead.

And then he _feels_ it.

New strength flows through his veins and the creature before him has lost its head without ever having had a chance to turn around. For it might be Tauriel who enters through the door and disposes of another attacker, but the dwarf physically feels Legolas’ presence as he dashes across the roof.

“Three!”

Tauriel stabs one orc, causes another a deep gash across the back and as Legolas jumps into the room through one of the holes in the roof Gimli smashes a skull.

“Four!”

Legolas kills his number one by crashing its head against the corner of the table, Tauriel hits another and Gimli’s axe relieves the one trying to attack Kíli of its head.

“Five.”

Legolas’ eyes darken and his stance changes as he opts for fighting with his knives, the air of a predator around him – as always when goes into close combat. Without having to exchange any words Gimli knows what to do and moves to corner the remaining orcs, driving them towards the elf with wide, powerful attacks that are not meant to strike but to chase. When they reach Legolas in their attempts to dodge the dwarf’s blows he comes upon them like nightmare come true.

Tauriel takes care of those which escape this strategy and after what seems like no more than mere moments the last surviving attacker takes off through the open door.

Legolas dashes after him and shoots him when he is still falling towards the waterline below, Gimli moving to follow him.

He knows what is about to happen.

“Come, Tauriel!”

The elf hesitates when her prince commands her to come with him, her eyes finding Kíli who is lying on the floor, writhing.

Gimli reaches a decision within a split second.

“Stay. I am going with him.”

With that he dashes through the open door and down the stairs, ignoring Fíli’s questions as he chooses a different gangplank than the one he can see Legolas darting down, arrows already flying fast.

Leaving Kíli’s fate in Tauriel’s capable hands he runs as fast as his short legs carry him (which is quite fast indeed), almost slipping and falling into the water at a sharp turn.

Cursing and swearing colourfully he makes for where he can hear Bolg shout something, ax already drawn, when he hears a hissed “ _Catch!_ ” from where Legolas takes off an orc’s head.

Without hesitating or slowing down he lets go of the ax from Laketown’s armoury, trusting his friend and his reflexes, and only moments later his fingers close around the dark shape flying towards him. He does not even have to give it closer examination to know that this is his own ax, taken by the elves of Mirkwood when they took them capture, as he darts around another corner – where he literally crashes into a warg.

Reacting on the instincts of one who has lived through many a cruel battle he pushes himself away from the stinking fur and draws the handle of his beloved weapon upwards as hard as he can, bringing the head down and burying the bit in a jerking ribcage.

Its rider moves to attack him, but before it has even started the blow it falls to the planks, an arrow in its head betraying the reason.

They seem to have arrived right before Bolg could send off any messengers, considering that seven orcs are moving to mount more wargs.

No words are necessary for the two time-travellers to understand what needs to be done.

Legolas’ arrows come flying, each hitting one of the beasts in a place that will keep it from moving quickly, and Gimli rushes to kill off those which still live after.

One arrow went into a heart and two were buried in brains, which leaves four wargs howling with pain as they try to follow Bolg’s orders nonetheless.

From the corner of his eyes Gimli sees that the spawn of Azog makes for where Legolas is standing, followed by four other orcs, but he cannot help him now – his task his clear. Two wargs are still alive, and three orcs are moving in to attack him as well.

Within the fraction of a second – there is no time to ponder in battle – he has decided on the best course of action and lifts his ax as he runs towards one of the wargs, the usual war cry on his lips.

“Khazad aî-menu!”

The orcs, all three of them standing between him and the beast, freeze for a moment in surprise and that is all he needs.

Trusting that his chainmail will protect him as always he holds his ax slightly to his right and runs into the gap between two of the orcs, which is no wider than an arm. As the bit of his weapon is driven into the chest of one of the creatures he crashes into the side of the other. The momentum, gained by his speed and weight, hurls the orc out of the way as Gimli continues to run towards the writhing warg, his ax coming loose when the dead orc is turned around as the dwarf grazes his shoulder in passing. Pulling his weapon up behind his back he drives it into the warg’s head by drawing it down in front of him.

The bit almost hits the wooden planks, but Gimli takes apart the labrys, only one of the two single-bit axes being stuck.

He whirls around and deflects an attack of the third orc, feinting a blow to the head and going for the stomach instead – the single ax is light enough to make manoeuvres like this one possible.

A second strike, this time actually to the head, and Gimli heads over to where the one he ran down is still trying to shake off the dizziness – his skull made hard contact with the floor. The dwarf cuts off its head with a single strike and then takes care of the last warg, before heading back to pick up the second ax.

As he removes it from the beast’s skull by force he already tries to assess Legolas’ situation, and the moment the bit has come free he dashes over to where the elf is trying to fight off Bolg and four orcs at the same time.

He is much quicker than them, and they seem to be blocking each other, but Bolg is an excellent fighter, and Legolas is too occupied with dodging and deflecting to draw any blood.

Amazingly quietly Gimli comes upon them from behind, one single-bit ax in each hand, and buries the weapons in the backs of the two less heavily armoured orcs.

Legolas, who has seen him come – of course – uses the short distraction the sound of cracking spines makes to quickly stab Orcrist at one of the unharmed creatures.

It does not take Bolg longer than a second to shake off the surprise and attack again, but that second was enough time for the elf to kill.

Gimli, upon seeing that Azog’s spawn keeps going for the blonde, puts his axes back together and then attacks the remaining orc, which barely manages to dodge.

Returning to his usual style, relying on his strength, the dwarf abandons all feinting and launches three powerful blows, the last of which hits true.

By now Legolas has gained the upper hand in his fight with Bolg, his experience (which includes personal experience in fighting Bolg himself) and the fact that he has lived through a long war and many battles showing.

This is no longer the young Prince of the Woodland Realm who had tried to oppose Bolg the last time.

The elf is about to take off Bolg’s head when Gimli reacts.

“Don’t!” he shouts, reasoning that the orc will not understand Khuzdul, and Legolas – surprised – draws the blade upwards, cutting off but an ear.

“Why not?!”

Bolg launches another attack.

“He needs to lead the army of Gundabad! We cannot kill him here,” Gimli explains as his friend dances out of the weapon’s reach.

“So what do we do?”

Legolas skips another deadly strike.

Gimli’s grin is toothy and very dangerous.

“We make him run.”

Legolas’ eyes meet the dwarf’s for no more than a split second. They need no more. The elf then falls completely into what is his nature, and Bolg – acting on instinct, too – physically _feels_ that he is pray now, and that the elf is the predator.

On reflex he recoils, trying to back away without ever really choosing to, and that is when he feels Gimli’s ax grazing his back.

Under different circumstances an orc, especially one of Bolg’s calibre, would easily be able to ignore its instincts, but in combination with the sudden shock of another foe at its back it is too much.

Bolg flees, running to report to his sire, and the two time-travellers let him.

“ _Thank you, mellon nín, for staying my hand_ ,” Legolas murmurs, panting, as they slowly turn to make for Bard’s house. “ _That was quick thinking. I was lost too far, too engulfed in battle, to consider aspects like those._ "

“You were a little pre-occupied,” Gimli mutters good-naturedly. “Bolg is an experienced fighter, after all. This is not like the battles we fought in the War, with all their chaos. The attention of five orcs was solely on you. So stop being angry that I killed most of them. After all, you were amply involved in taking out the wargs, and you had the most kills in the house.”

Legolas laughs softly. “You always know what to say, mellon nín, however you found out I was angry at myself. You are right – we worked well together.”

“That we did,” Gimli mutters contently. “We always do.”

They return to Bard’s wooden house, when their eyes are drawn to the Lonely Mountain – and the golden light shining at the level of the large gate.

Exchanging an alarmed glance both break into a run, bursting into the room where the others are waiting mere seconds later.

Tauriel is standing guard at the door, worry etched into her features, with Óin and Bain behind her. Fíli is sitting at Kíli’s side, holding his hand, while Bofur and Sigrid try their best to calm Tilda. (It should go unsaid, Gimli thinks, that Bofur is not exactly helpful.)

“We need to get out of here,” he announces. “ _Now_. The dragon will be on its way.”

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got an **announcement** to make.  
>  Since next Thursday is Ascension Day (?) we've got the day off, and I'll be in Italy until Saturday... so, the next chapter, I'm afraid, won't go up before that... maybe even Sunday, depending on how stressful unpacking and all that drama will be.  
> Sorry for that.
> 
> Also, I'm really excited that I _finally_ got myself to working on this story once more, and it's written out till chapter 25 now... yay! There's lots of fun scenes (well, 'fun' is a relaitve term :p) coming our way :D
> 
> With all that said... have a nice weekend :D


	18. And flames went up into the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **18\. And flames went up into the sky**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 7: In the House of Tom Bombadil_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> ...due to that fire in the airport of Rome our flight was cancelled.  
> Means I'm not getting my vacation but you're getting your chapter on time...
> 
> So, I'm sure lots of you know that problem when your characters do what _they_ want, not what _you_ want them to do... In Laketown, Gimli was being unbelievably stubborn.  
>  Just so you know.

### 18\. And flames went up into the sky

As Tauriel convinces Bards’ distraught children that leaving will be, indeed, a very good idea, Gimli moves to help his wounded friend, who might have been healed, but is still rather on the weak side.

Ignoring Bofur’s questions (Where has he been? How does he know? Why did he go with an _elf_?) he helps Fíli to carry Kíli down the stairs and into a boat Tauriel and Legolas have already prepared. The three dwarves are the last to enter, and the elves begin to steer the small vessel through the maze of canals and wooden pillars the moment they are seated, Tauriel kneeling at the front and giving them directions.

Quite obviously, she knows her way around Laketown.

“Giml- … Gimin, there are weapons hidden underneath one of the seats,” the prince of Mirkwood directs.

The red-head complies, sending his friend a sharp glance for almost slipping, and begins to dig between everyone’s legs.

Bofur moves to help him, and before long Gimli hands out a mattock, a pike, three swords, a bow and a quiver.

Legolas and Tauriel brought their weapons when they came here, and obviously hid them before the fight.

They are risking quite a lot with this, but Gimli, his fingers curling around grip of his own ax, he cannot bring himself to chide them. The time-traveller watches as his companions reach for their trusted arms, each of them relieved to see them returned, and he knows that this was the right decision.

They are granted a short moment of peace, then, before Legolas’ eyes focus on something above them.

Then the sky is burning.

Tauriel quickly directs them, choosing where to hide, as the elves’ sharp eyes are observing the flight path of the dragon.

So this is Smaug, Gimli thinks, enemy of his forefathers and slayer of so many of his kin.

And when Legolas’ fingers are twitching towards where his bow is strapped to his back, and when his beautiful eyes are burning with the urge to bury an arrow in that creature’s eye, to _kill_ , the dwarf says nothing on the matter but shares a moment of deep connection with his friend, for the same fire, the same drive, the same _hatred_ is raging in his own heart.

Oh, what would he give to be able to bury his ax in that worm’s brain!

As it is, however, there is no way he can fight a dragon, no matter how much he might wish to.

The city is burning around them, a blazing inferno, and Gimli understands why his father’s eyes were always filled with dread when he talked about Smaug, and why Thranduil would even fear those beasts.

“Trees like torches, blazed with light,” Fíli mutters, eyes pained with the death around them. “This is our fault.”

“It is _my_ fault,” Gimli corrects him softly, ignoring the sharp look Legolas darts him. “I could have-”

“-done nothing!” Kíli argues, voice firmer than any of them would have imagined.

Conversation ceases then, the group being occupied with _surviving_ , and neither Gimli nor Legolas are surprised when Bain reaches for a hook and swings off the barge, dashing away to bring the last remaining of Girion’s black arrows to his father.

The rest of their flight passes in a blurry of fear and adrenaline, so different from a battle. The red-head hates feeling helpless more than anything else, but there is nothing he can do as he keeps catching glimpses of Bard and Bain and their attempts to slay the dragon.

Legolas’ breath hitches, then, and Gimli knows that this means the bowman has taken his shot.

He is not surprised when Smaug roars with pain and rage, flying towards the sky for a last time before crashing back down.

He had known that this would happen.

Still, that does not make this any less terrifying.

“Smaug- … fell. Is he dead?” Kíli asks, breathlessly.

“His fire died,” Tauriel answers, voice thick with emotions. “We can assume that he is dead, yes, as he stopped moving.”

The dwarves begin to cheer, but the time-traveller does not miss the way Tilda is shivering.

“What about… Da? And Bain? The tower… it fell…” She snivels.

Gimli and Legolas exchange a glance, and the red-head knows what he is going to do. What is _right_. He has condemned all those people to their death, although he could have helped them, but this – this is his chance to at least try and atone for it.

“I will go look for them,” he promises, gruffly. “You make for shore, and help those in the water on the way. I will do what I can here. Wait for me before you march for the mountain.”

Bofur opens his mouth to protest, but Tilda flings her arms around the dwarf’s neck (although he is, quite obviously, still scaring her) and Fíli’s eyes are treacherously soft.

“Do not take too long,” he murmurs as her reaches for his brother’s still shaking fingers.

“We will accompany him,” Legolas offers. “That is, if you are up to steering the boat?” The challenge is as obvious as it is effective, and the deep blue eyes are twinkling when Bofur tears the punt pole from the blonde’s delicate hands.

“Off ye pop,” he tells them as he steers the barge to a short pathway that is not yet blazing with fire and Gimli is the first to climb off, followed by the elves.

“I will look for the bowman and his son,” Legolas determines. “Tauriel goes for the other end of the town and you stay in this part, here. We are more adapt at climbing burning rooftops than you.” His teeth are showing when he grins, then.

“ _You are becoming more and more dwarvish, my dear_ ,” Gimli mutters, too quietly for the leaving dwarves to hear, and Legolas snorts before he takes off.

“ _Take care, mellon nín. Although I do not doubt roasted dwarf would taste quite nice, especially with proper seasoning, I would rather prepare you myself. Men, I have found, lack in cooking skills._ ”

A flash of golden hair and the elf is gone, dashing through the flames, across the roofs and bridges.

Shaking his head fondly Gimli takes a look around, not sparing his leaving friends a glance as he listens to the cries around him, trying to determine where the closest ones are coming from, and a way to get there without being roasted.

He has promised to stay rare, after all, although the elf would surely prefer his meat well-done.

A shrill, panicked cry rings out to his right and the dwarf dashes forward, jumps across a small fire and stops dead when he sees a child trapped in a burning house, and the water that is separating him from the adjoined walkway.

Sighing, and resigning himself to a cold, wet night Gimli fastens his ax on his back, takes a deep breath and jumps into the water (he would have needed someone to toss him now, he thinks, amused), trying to make as many feet as possible. He comes up spluttering, and his chainmail and the ax are pulling him down, but the drive was strong enough to get him to the glowing walkway. He takes a deep breath and bids adieu to his gloves before reaching for a piece of plank that looks almost solid and pulling himself up.

The heat makes his knees burn with pain as he hoists his body onto the blackened wood, but the child is still crying and there are so many who died because of him, he wishes to save at least those he can-

It is a girl, maybe five years old, and she is coughing from the smoke when Gimli lifts her into his arms and darts through the flames back onto the walkway mere moments before the house comes down behind them.

“Shh,” the dwarf tries to soothe the panicked child, but it is little use, and, well, perhaps his gruff features do not exactly help.

Thus he tries to asses her injuries, and when there is nothing worse than a few nasty burns which must hurt something fiercely, but are no danger to her life, he sighs with relief. The girl is shaking with fear and terror, but now slowly winds her arms around his neck until the grip is rather hard for an approximately-five-year-old.

Gimli holds her close, the coolness of his wet clothing soothing some of her burns, as he makes for a walkway that looks to be reasonably safe.

Sinking to the dry wood he pulls her into his lap, wrapping her in his body heat as he lets her bury her tiny face in his beard and cry. There will be lots of snot to remove later, no doubt, but right now he has other worries. His broad hands look huge on her slender shoulders as he lets them run down her spine and back up.

“Shh. It is terrible, I know, but you are safe now. Shh.”

It takes many a nonsense whispered into her ear, and even a deep, lowly hummed lullaby, to make her hysterical sobs decrease to a low wail.

He turns her face to look at him, then, and does his best to look less grumpy and more smiley.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“T-Thordis,” she sniffles, and hides her face in his beard once more. Clearly, she does not want to see the flames still blazing all around them.

It is not like he cannot understand that.

“Alright, Thordis. I will take care of you, and see that you get to shore. I understand that this is horrible, but you are safe now. However, there are others I have to help as well. May I carry you along?”

After a moment of hesitation she nods into his beard. Before he can deepen the conversation, however, another cry for help alerts him, and he fastens his grip around the girl on his hip, telling her to hold on, before taking off.

The walkway barely holds his weight, but he manages to get to a man in the water who is fighting against the cold as much as weight of his own clothes, pulling him under.

Feeling the hard grip around his neck the dwarf does not hesitate to bend down and reach for a pleadingly extended hand, heaving the old man onto the walkway with hard muscles made for carrying heavy stones and powerful weapons.

As the rescued man gasps for air, shaking with cold and exhaustion, Gimli’s sharp eyes find a boat that appears to be still safe not too far away.

There is a walkway leading to where it is lying, and it looks safe enough. Rising, he dashes over and unties the ropes holding it, perhaps minutes before the flames licking at the walkway would have reached it. He climbs in as quickly as possible, with Thordis still clinging to him, and rescues a punt pole from the fire, which is quickly extinguished. He then pushes the barge over to where the old man is still focusing on breathing. “Can you steer it?”

The aged eyes take in the girl clinging to the dwarf’s neck and the man slowly nods.

“Perfect. You need to get off the walkway, it might burst into flames any time.” Gimli helps him climb into the boat, lending his own strength when old legs are shaking too heavily.

He then detaches the girl’s face from his beard.

“Thordis? Can you do something for me?”

She nods slowly, hesitantly.

“Would you stay with this man?”

Her grip tightens as she hides her face in his beard once again, and Gimli carefully embraces her with his strong arms.

“There are others who need help, and some which… might not be nice to look at. This man? Later, he will get you out of here, away from the fire. He will keep you safe, while I help save others. You are a big girl, right? You can do that. Cuddle into the nice man. He is cold, do you see him shivering?” he cajoles quietly, pretending that he does not see the soft smile on the elderly man’s lips. “You can help him get warm, and he will help you. He will take you to safety, and later, I will find you, alright?”

Slowly, carefully, she raises her tiny head.

“If you need something, just yell. Call for Gimin, and I will come.”

“Promise?” she whispers, voice shaking.

“If it is possible for me, I shall answer to your call. I promise,” he pledges sincerely, and, finally, she lets go of his neck.

He hugs her, before lifting her into the boat. She clings to his hand for a few moments, before letting go.

“Thank you, Master Gimin,” the man says. “My name is Einarr. If I can help you in any way, please – tell me.”

“Take care of Thordis,” is all Gimli asks, before instructing: “Keep her warm. Stay close, but away from the fires, in order to keep the boat safe. If I find more survivors, I will bring them as long as you have space. I shall also steer the boat to shore then, should you be too weak.”

With that he has taken off, leaving Thordis with Einarr Kolgrim. There is nothing he can do for her at this moment.

She needs someone to look after her, Einarr needs an occupation, and Gimli needs to help whom he can.

In the following hours he pulls seven more people out of the water – one of them needs Tauriel’s skills before breathing again – and lifts countless beams in order to rescue those who are trapped in the inferno. His fingers are blistering as he grabs blankets and coats which have not been turned to ashes wherever he finds them, and he even spies two more whole boats to put those he has rescued into after he has sent Einarr off to shore with Thordis and five others.

Legolas and Tauriel cross his way multiple times, and in some cases they have to work together.

They also find many for who help comes too late and they put them into another barge, to return the bodies to their families.

Of many, no bodies will ever be found.

Gimli’s heart lightens with everyone they can save, and bleeds every time he finds another one who has fallen prey to fire or cold.

Worry is shining in Legolas’ eyes whenever they meet, and the dwarf knows, he must be dreadful to look at – soaked to the bone (two more stays in the freezing water are the reason for that, one of which was unintended when the burnt wood of a walkway crumbled beneath his feet) and his no longer gloved hands raw and blistered. Dwarves are hardy folk, however, and guilt is still churning his insides, so he ignores his friend’s concern and keeps going.

When the sun rises they have searched most of the town and Legolas urges him to make for the shore.

“ _Your companions will already be waiting for you, mellon nín, and I imagine the girl cannot wait to see her hero again. Show her that you are well, and then leave with your friends. Tauriel and I will stay with Bard and help him as good as we can. My father will not recall me this time, but come to Dale with his army, as you well know, and Tauriel will make for Gundabad alone. When she leaves I shall move to catch up with you and see how things are in Erebor, to report back and further help the men. You did what you could, Gimli. Now do what you came here for, go with your family, and let me take care of the rest._ ”

His eyes are soft as his hand finds Gimli’s shoulder in a comforting gesture.

You are my family as much as they are, the dwarf wants to say, but despite his exhaustion he manages not to.

Instead he sighs. “Alright. I will take the barge with the bodies to shore. Are you coming with me?”

“Yes,” Tauriel answers. “Here, we have done what we could. It is time to move on.”

They climb aboard that last salvageable barge, then, and Gimli is the one who rows them away from the smouldering ruins, strong arms working with a steady pace. It takes them next to no time to reach the shore, and when they arrive a group of men is already awaiting them, grim eyes on their load.

Gimli leaves it to them to find the families and instead jumps into the shallow water, dragging himself onto solid ground with what must be the last bit of strength he has left.

Sighing tiredly he leans against a bald tree, sliding down the stem until he is seated on the cold ground and ignoring the worry in the elf’s eyes.

“Gimin!” a high-pitched voice calls, and without a warning something tiny comes flying towards him, landing right in his lap as he reflexively reaches out to catch the girl. “You’re alright!”

“I am,” he rumbles, his strong hands finding the small head quite without his prompting. “There is no need to worry for me, little one. I am very capable of taking care of myself.”

“But you didn’t come back!”

A soft face emerges from his beard, bright eyes wide with worry.

“I had to help others as well, which took very long. I am terribly sorry I made you wait, young Lady. Will you forgive me?”

She stares at him for a few short moments, before nodding fiercely and diving back into the waterfall of damp, bushy read hair lying against his broad chest.

“I dare say she will not let go of you any time soon,” someone snickers and Gimli turns his head to find matching grins on Fíli and Kíli’s faces as they observe them from where they are sitting a few paces away.

Smiling indulgently the red-head returns to petting the soft head even as he closes his own eyes.

One moment of peace is all he is asking for…

“You must be Gimin, then,” a female’s voice tears him from the nothingness his weary mind has fled to. “I am forever in your debt… please, let me introduce myself.” Heavy lids make way for a light much too bright, no matter the murky sky, and a clearly tired young woman. “I am Finna, mother of Thordis. Her father-” She averts her gaze, then, and Gimli finds himself climbing to his feet, the girl – who seems to have fallen asleep on his lap – still held securely.

“I am terribly sorry for your loss,” he murmurs. “I wish I could have saved him.”

“There is nothing anyone could have done,” the woman answers, voice heavy with tears. “The dragon got to him. I had to watch- … it is not your fault.”

But it is!, Gimli wants to yell, I could have saved him and everyone else! I _knew_ what was going to come!

“All the more I thank the Father of All you brought my girl back.”

Chapped lips, hidden beneath a thick beard, curl into a smile. “It was my pleasure.”

Finna returns the smile. “You are her hero, now. She would speak of nothing but you and your incredible courage when Einarr brought her to me. You jumped into the water, she said?”

“That I did. I would not have been fast enough otherwise, the house was all but crumbling.”

He instantly regrets this description upon seeing the distress in the woman’s eyes; however, she quickly smiles in an attempt to reassure him.

“She has told everyone of your heroic deeds, and Tilda – daughter of Bard – has been telling one or two tales as well. You might be named Hero or Protector of Laketown with the girls’ worship, no matter that your companions were the ones who woke that dragon.”

Gimli’s eyes widen in shock. “Hero of Laketown? I am no such person!”

Finna’s smile is kind, understanding. “A third of the survivors you see here were rescued by you and the elves. You saved my daughter from certain death, and brought Bard’s girls to safety. You stayed when no one else did, and you helped whom you could. Nobody else did that, no one but you and those two elves. While I understand you might not want to be idolised – I would ask you to let my people do it none the less, for they need something to hold onto in such trying times.”

Gimli raises an eyebrow. “How old are you, Finna, if you would allow the question?”

“I have seen twenty-three winters. Why would you ask?”

“For one so young, you possess a lot of wisdom. I certainly do not wish to be a beacon of hope or something equally ridiculous for the people of Laketown, and I am not even sure I _can_ be – yet I am ready to act as whatever the children need, at least. I will have to follow my companions to the Mountain now – please take care of yourself and Thordis.”

As the blushing woman nods, understanding in her eyes when the red-haired dwarf inclines his head towards where Fíli and Kíli are clearly growing impatient, a tiny face emerges from his beard once again.

“You’re leaving?”

“I am afraid I must, for now. However, I am sure we will meet again soon.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he vows once again, before setting Thordis down and kneeling beside her.

“Now, little one, you are a young Lady, right?” She seems to grow a few inches as she nods eagerly, eyes shining. “You are quite capable, then, of making sure your mother is safe. Until we meet again, I trust you will take care of both of you?”

“I will!” she nods, proudly, and beams when he wraps her into a last, careful hug, before standing.

“I will see you as soon as possible,” he promises Finna (who is smiling fondly) before stalking over to where his companions are already waiting, all but jumping with impatience.

“Finally!” Bofur exclaims, and moves to push the boat he has found them into the water. Gimli helps him, climbing aboard, and when he turns to look around he sees Kíli talk to Tauriel – Fíli next to him is reeling with jealousy – and Thordis wave from where she is perched on her mother’s arm.

He lifts his hand in a last greeting, waits for Kíli to catch up, and then takes up his oar.

His last glance towards the shore is directed at Legolas, and when their eyes connect he knows they will not be apart for long.

_When she leaves I shall move to catch up with you and see how things are in Erebor._

Indeed, time passes more quickly than usually when the blonde is absent.

“That girl has a _huge_ crush on you,” Kíli sing-songs even as Fíli wrestles the oar from his fingers, makes him sit back despite his brother’s attempts to resist that treatment.

“You are barely healed! Besides, four is more than enough to row!”

The younger one grumbles as he relents, taking a seat in the stern of their boat. “I am perfectly fine! Tauriel knew what she was doing, I do not even feel weak any longer, let alone any pain!”

Gimli wonders whether he is the only one to notice Fíli’s white-knuckled grip on the oar.

He himself concentrates on rowing – however long he fell asleep with Thordis in his lap, it was long enough to tear him back from immediate exhaustion – and slowly, finally, lets the excitement he is only now allowing himself to feel seep into his veins.

However often he has wandered the vast halls of Erebor in that time he came from – this is _different_.

Having retaken one’s home from the occupation of a fire-breathing beast…

As they climb ashore and set upon trekking across the barren wasteland towards the ruins of Dale his companions, too, grow silent. Even Bofur has no words to share what he is feeling as they finally draw closer to their home.

Then they come upon Dale.

The sight is- …

Shattering.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you think of the "Laketowner"-Names?  
> I found them with the help of [this](http://www.realelvish.net/namelists.php) wonderful page... (should any of you need some, too ^^)


	19. But it gave him more sorrow than joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **19\. But it gave him more sorrow than joy**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 18: The Return Journey_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Having (more or less) safely made it across the Surprise Pass and Canon Lake, through Diskussion Town and the Skirmish Woods we are now approaching the Filler Plains before finally reaching the River of Revelations in the (hopefully) not too distant future... maybe.  
> We'll see.
> 
> Anyway, this _is_ a filler (and the next will be too, I think), but I hope you still like it.

### 19\. But it gave him more sorrow than joy

_Then they come upon Dale._

_The sight is- …_

_Shattering._

 

Memories are strong here, despite (or maybe due to) the utter silence, and ghosts seem to be haunting every piece of rubble, every dark corner. Everyday objects which have not been taken by decay speak of the horror of that day, when death and destruction came upon the peaceful, unsuspecting residents without a warning.

Breathing seems to be harder here, and Gimli feels his blood go cold where before warmth had rushed through his veins.

A flash of golden then tears the dwarf from his dark thoughts.

It is all he needs, no matter how short of a moment it may have been, to know what to do.

Painting weariness into his eyes and exhaustion onto his features (which is not all that hard, considering the fact he does not need fake them) he slows his pace down a wee bit until the others gain a slight advance, waving the question in Fíli’s worried eyes off when the blonde realizes and turns.

“I will be fine. It was a long day… wait for me before you enter, will you?”

The prince nods and the four continue onwards, Fíli taking this as a reason to make Kíli slow down a little as well.

“ _The way Tauriel is looking at him is entirely incomprehensible for me_ ,” melodic words softly reach his ears.

Of course it is, Gimli thinks, why would an elf ever look at a dwarf that way? And while it makes his heart constrict painfully he certainly understands his friend’s bewilderment, until Legolas continues: “ _Even I can see how those two are pining for each other, and I really do not know them!_ ”

The dwarf is too surprised to react.

“ _On the other hand, Merry and Pippin used to look at each other much the same way, until Pippin_ finally _worked up the courage to kiss Merry in the aftermath of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields after pulling him out from underneath that stinking orch’s body._ ”

“No need to continue, laddie,” Gimli grumbles, voice no more than a whisper. “Just like you, I have heard that particular story often enough, with Merry never shutting up about how wonderfully Pippin _took care of him_ after he found him. It is moving and all, but I never had any wish to hear the details of said care-taking, and I still do not want to know.”

Bright pearls of laughter wash through the no longer empty air, barely loud enough to reach the dwarf’s ears.

They turn around a corner, then, leaving Dale behind.

The huge, battered gates of Erebor come into view, and just as Gimli’s heart stutters with the surge of emotions overcoming him the flick of gold which he used to see from the corner of his dark eyes is gone, like a wisp of wind.

A few paces ahead Fíli and Kíli are bickering – a reassuring sight – and Bofur seems to be attempting to talk Óin’s ear off.

He is no longer hidden from their view, and the elf has returned to the shadows of Dale, not wishing to be seen.

His heart as heavy with Legolas’ absence as it is bright with the prospect of finally stepping into _Erebor_ the time-traveller quickens his steps just so, and when the other four stop in front of the gates (the condition of which clearly betraying that a dragon forced its way through not too long ago) with wide eyes he has all but caught up with them.

Easily Gimli reaches for Kíli’s arm to draw it over his shoulder when Fíli is too amazed to do so himself, barely in time to stop the young prince from dashing into the mountain – and doing his wound no service, no doubt.

The youngest grumbles, yet does not take the time to complain.

For a few long moments, they stand without moving.

Fíli is the first to step inside, and Bofur follows on his heels. Kíli tears his arm from his friend’s grip and rushes after his brother.

“Come,” Óin – the last one to remain – rumbles. “This is our moment.”

The time-traveller feels his heart swell as warmth spreads through his veins. “Aye,” he agrees, quietly. “It is.”

(And it is going to pass much too soon, the joy being taken by fear and darkness.)

The old dwarf gives him a crooked smile before following his companions, and leaves the red-haired dwarf standing alone before those huge gates still carrying scars the pain of which few lands will be able to relate to.

Gimli’s heart is beating almost painfully hard as he, too, finally moves forward, one step at a time. The others are darting down the hall, and once again a soft flash of gold catches his attention. Legolas is walking but inches behind him, ever so light on his feet as always – a calming presence in his back. (And a dwarf who presents himself with such vulnerability towards a Firstborn must truly be an _Elf-friend_ , he thinks, for he would trust Legolas to protect his back until his own death.)

He remembers this moment only too well, from _before_ – the moment he had first stepped foot into Erebor.

It had not been magical or triumphal then, for the loss of his princeling friends had weighed heavily on his broken heart. Instead of victory and joy the wide halls which had still been reeking of dragon had been filled with grief and an overwhelming sense of defeat.

The dwarves of Erebor had reclaimed their home, and paid for it with the lives of their beloved king and princes.

This time Gimli has not forgotten about the terrible future that may be awaiting, never does that fear slip from his keen mind, yet his heart is singing with joy, and for the first time he thanks fate for this opportunity granted to him: The chance to step foot into his home with a heart almost whole and delight in his eyes.

“ _I still wish I could have taken a shot at that dragon_ ,” Legolas grumbles lowly, as to stop the words from carrying. “ _I wish you had allowed me to shoot that blasted black arrow; or at least put one of my arrows into the beast’s eyes! It would not have killed it, granted, but I have been itching to take my bow into war against a firedrake since I have realized what they did to my father!_ ”

Gimli rolls his eyes affectionately. “ _They should call you_ khuzd-bah,” he rumbles; taking care to keep his voice down. “ _You are more of a dwarf than I am an elf, with the way war runs through your veins instead of flowers and song, and your wish to meet one of those wyrms in battle_.”

The elf gives an amused chuckle at that. “ _True_ ,” he agrees easily. “ _Maybe I have indeed adopted more dwarven habits than you have taken to elven ways. Flowers and song most definitely do not make_ your _heart beat, my iron-muscled friend. I am not that sure about elven wine, though_ …”

Bushy red eyebrows shoot towards an equally red hairline. “ _You must know by now that dwarves value good liquor as much as any elf_.”

“ _I also know that they cannot hold theirs as well as us. Or do I have to remind you of that drinking game in Edoras?_ ”

The eyebrows are knitting now – that is one defeat Gimli certainly does not like being reminded of. “Shut your chatty little mouth just for one second, will you, and let me enjoy the moment. Besides, we already have plans to settle that matter. Or have you forgotten our experiment?”

He does not need to turn around to know that the bright blue eyes are sparkling with amusement. “ _Just this once_ ,” the elf murmurs, his blond braids brushing against the shell of Gimli’s ear.

The dwarf shivers and slows down as he attempts to compose himself. The slender figure remains unmoving like a statue in his back – Fíli, Kíli, Óin and Bofur he has lost sight of by now – as he takes a deep breath and hastens his steps once again, enjoying the sound of the soles of his heavy boots on the polished (if rubble-littered) stone that makes up the floor of Erebor.

_Erebor._

Suddenly wild joy is rushing through Gimli’s veins, replacing the heavy awe from before. Dashing forward without a warning he runs down the hall and takes the turns he _knows_ will lead him to the treasury.

The corridors are still reeking of dragon and filled with rubble; the walls becoming more scorched the closer he comes to the central halls. Still, this is his _home_ and he finds his way as easily as he would have found it in the Blue Mountains.

A tiny, silvery pearl of blithe laughter rolls past him, barely audible. The elf is right behind him, sharing his joy, and bathing in the perfection of this moment. (He really has some dwarvish virtues, feeling so blatantly at ease in an underground kingdom made not of roots and trunks, but rock and stone.)

Gimli’s heart beats a little harder at the sound, the blood rushing through his veins boiling a little hotter, and he is feeling so incredibly beautifully _alive_.

Then he dashes out of the corridor onto a bridge and in front of him the wide hall opens, filled with piles upon piles of gold and gems. This is the dragon’s hoard. This is… his people’s legacy.

The sight is beautiful, gleaming and sparkling and glowing, and for one moment he understands how even the most strong-minded dwarf might fall prey to the gold’s spell. Then a different shade of gold flashes behind him, only to be gone in an instant, and as Legolas leaves to return to his father – not wishing to be seen by any other dwarves – Gimli finds his heart grow heavy at the sight of the hoard, for it is not the right nuance, not the right treasure, not the right _love_.

“-Gold,” reaches his ears, and as his dark eyes dart across the hall, spotting his four companions a few levels beneath the bridge he is standing on, Thorin’s voice sounds again. “…gold beyond measure, beyond sorrow and grief.”

The King’s voice has an odd cadence to it, and even from the distance Gimli can see the strange sparkle in his eyes.

“Behold the great treasure hoard of Thrór!”

Fíli and Kíli’s eyes are wide, Bofur’s mouth hangs open.

Óin, however, has a grim line to his features, darkened by the shadows the flames of the torches are painting, and when his gaze finds his nephew’s some levels above the time-traveller knows that the older members of this company, those who witnessed Thrór’s deterioration – Óin and Balin and Dwalin, and possibly even ever pessimistic Dori – that they had feared this would come to pass.

“Welcome, my sister-sons, to the Kingdom of Erebor!” Thorin’s words resound in the wide hall, and Gimli feels his heart clench in terror when he realizes how terrible having to watch is really going to be.

He had known that it would happen, yes, had never stopped counting the days as they were nearing the Battle of five Armies, had played possible scenes time and again in his head, and still-

Reality is so much worse.

So much more painful.

Seeing his King like that, already fallen prey to a curse the time-traveller had thought he would resist for longer, breaks Gimli’s heart.

And the worst is yet to come.

Bilbo’s eyes finally fall upon the redhead on the bridge, and, oh, it _hurts_ to see the pale eyes filled with so much fear, pain and disappointment.

The hobbit has realized better than most how far gone Thorin, son of Thráin, King under the Mountain really is.

His heart heavy Gimli tries to convey his sympathy and understanding with naught but an exchanged glance, before turning.

It is time to find the others – his father will already be waiting.

He finds his way through the corridors as easily as before; however, it is mere luck that has him choose the right direction, as he knows not where they have assembled.

The remainder of the company is seated in what looks to have once been a dining room – the long table now covered in dust and cobwebs – and Balin is the first to jump to his feet when the time-traveller enters.

He seems to have arrived before those he stayed in Laketown with, for Bombur and Bifur are still staring at the door he has entered through, eyes shining with yearning.

Moments later Glóin is shooting towards him, their foreheads connecting almost painfully hard.

“We are all well,” Gimli attempts to soothe his companions, most of all his own father. “I arrived a little later than the others, due to exhaustion.”

“Exhaustion?” Balin asks, usually twinkling eyes eerily hollow, as he takes his turn to gently knock his forehead against the redhead’s.

Gimli hesitates for a moment, before coming to the decision that Bofur will tell them anyway. There is no secret the miner would ever keep, he is worse of a gossip than Merry and Pippin – together. “I- … stayed in Laketown… after the dragon came. The others made for shore, but I stayed to help.”

He waits for accusations, for lack of comprehension, yet the others stay silent.

“Thank you,” a low, deep voice finally sounds, “for doing what we could not. We brought that dragon upon them, after all.” It is not surprising, Gimli thinks, that Dwalin was the one to speak up. He has lived with too much guilt (survivor’s guilt, yes, but guilt none the less) in his life already.

Balin’s eyes are shining with gratitude as he steps aside to let Dori take his place, who is followed by Nori, Ori and Bombur. When Bifur steps forward to hug the time-traveller (ever careful not to knock the ax lodged in his head against anyone’s brow) Fíli and Kíli come tumbling into the room, followed by Bofur and a way more sedate Óin. The general attention is diverted, then, to the newcomers, and Gimli slowly relaxes, relieved.

He is more surprised, this time, when it is Dwalin who stays with him, eyes dark and knowing.

“You saw it too, aye?”

The redhead does not need to ask what he is talking about.

As he observes the reunion – his own father currently attempting to mother his brother, a failed attempt as might be added – he answers with a nod, bushy eyebrows knitting together into a grim line.

Dwalin’s face is just as dark.

“We shield the youngsters well as possible.”

It hurts – hearing the pain in the old, loyal warrior’s words as he talks of shielding the princes from their own uncle… from their King.

Gimli nods again in confirmation, and with a heavy heart he watches as Dwalin leaves to greet the princes, Bofur and Óin as well.

They have barely reunited, barely had the chance to speak of what has happened and reassure family members of one’s safety, when a heavy shadow falls into the doorway.

The silhouette is unmistakable.

“We search for the Arkenstone. Now.”

His heart bleeding Gimli rises and follows his King’s command.

Knowing fully well that Bilbo will already have taken the jewel they are looking for he forces his weary limbs to obey his will as he drags himself across the hall, finding a corner in which he begins to turn the coins, gems and trinkets upside down.

Searching for something he knows not to be there is more frustrating than he would have thought.

Also, he is feeling old and weary now that the prospect of battle is gone.

Still.

His king has commanded, and he shall follow.

(And if he is actually relieved that said King will not find his Arkenstone, for it will only further his madness? Then that is better not said aloud, and shared only with tired glances as he sees the same thoughts reflected in Balin’s and Dwalin’s wearied eyes.)

The hours are dragging on, then, and Gimli finds himself _yearning_ for Legolas presence, for the _right_ nuance of gold and-

…and the calm and steady strength only this one person could provide in an hour when his King’s mind is lost.

Claiming to be tired – which is no lie – he finally receives the permission to take a break and rest so that he might help searching all the faster come morning. Thorin’s eyes are dark with madness and yet bright with fever, shining in the lights of the torches the same way the gold is glinting in the firelight.

As it is evening and darkness has fallen already Gimli chooses the ruined gate for his rest, far from his family and comrades, and when he beds his worn out body onto hard and cold stone that called ‘home’ mere hours ago – he is joined by two very-not-dwarven companions within minutes.

He should not have been surprised, he tiredly thinks, as he watches Legolas climb up to his level, moving like a cat once more. As Bilbo follows, more slowly, the elf takes off his cloak, his movements flowing like the Anduin.

As he manoeuvres the soft piece of clothing underneath Gimli’s head (even in the face of all his grumbling) he folds his long limbs into a sitting position, leaning against the broken wall next to his dwarven friend.

Bilbo takes a seat opposite them, staring at the sky.

“The stars…” he says, and his voice is low and quiet “looked just the same when I was staring at them after I had sentenced a town to death.”

“The stars,” Gimli replies, eyes closed “looked just the same the night I chose to let everything happen the way it did last time, in order to make saving a few selected people possible. It was not you who sentenced that town and its inhabitants to death, Bilbo, when you woke the dragon. It was me, when I chose that the lives of three might weigh more than those of so many.”

“No lives weigh more or less than those of any others,” Legolas objects, voice smooth and bright as always. “Nor did you make them weigh more. We are not those sent to Middle-Earth to save it. We are not like Mithrandir and Curunír – Istari, Maiar. There is only so much an elf or a dwarf can do, Gimli, and I know that you have always fought for freedom. For your own people as much as for mine, Aragorn’s and Bilbo’s. You are a _good_ person, and if you had to make a choice… like a _king_ , choosing between some and others… if you were forced to make that choice, then that is nothing to be ashamed of. _I_ know how much it is plaguing you now, mellon nín.”

“You… talked about a war, right?” Bilbo almost timidly chips in. “You fought through a war, and now you have to go through this… the Valar have asked so much of you already.”

“That they have,” Legolas quietly agrees. “But you are strong, mellon nín, in body mind and soul. Also… if by not saving those poor dwellers of Laketown you have saved Thorin Oakenshield… then, maybe, you have created a stronghold against the East more powerful than Dáin’s ever was.”

It is quiet for some time.

Then-

“Maybe,” Gimli concedes, lowly. “It does feel more like selfishness, though.”

“No one can be selfless only. There is no soul strong enough to live with that and not break,” Bilbo objects. “Not even Gandalf and Saruman are always selfless.”

“Not even them,” Legolas agrees, and there is something in his voice – something more than knowledge of what Saruman’s pride and jealousy will make him do.

Gimli is startled when a smooth, long-fingered hand finds his and closes around his own, thick and calloused fingers. The elf offers no more words, but his presence is enough. As the bright light that is his one, and his warmth mingling with Gimli’s own through their joined hands anchor him to this world he finally finds himself able of letting go.

Accepting Irmo’s offer of peace, if only for a few hours, he drifts off, Legolas’ and Bilbo’s soft conversation settling over him like a blanket.

 

_TBC_


	20. But he kept it secret from them as long as he could

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **20\. But he kept it secret from them as long as he could**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 4: Of the Finding of the Ring_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> I'm under a lot of time pressure right now, so no fancy words...

### 20\. But he kept it secret from them as long as he could

_Accepting Irmo’s offer of peace, if only for a few hours, Gimli drifts off, Legolas’ and Bilbo’s soft conversation settling over him like a blanket._

 

He dreams of trees, then, and of dancing through Fangorn with his elf at his side, and when he wakes again the trees and ents fade together with the bright pearls of laughter rolling through the wood.

“ _You ought to wake up, mellon nín_ ,” is whispered into his ear. “ _Balin only just came to find Bilbo, for your King asked to see them._ ”

“Did he see you?” Gimli asks as he pries his eyes open, only to look into the deep blue seas watching him from Legolas’ fine features.

“Of course not!” is the rather indignant answer, and the dwarf cannot help but smile as he slowly sits up.

“Of course not,” he agrees lowly, before grinning: “You would have liked my dream. It was embarrassingly elf-compliant.”

The blonde takes his cloak as Gimli returns it after having climbed to his feet. “What did you dream about?”

“Dancing. Through _Fangorn_. It was disgusting.”

Legolas’ laughter is bright and clear, just like in the dream, and when it fades away the shock of golden hair has already disappeared into the night.

Grumbling – this seems to be becoming a habit – Gimli makes his way down into the entrance hall, and then through the winding corridors and tunnels. Letting his underground sense and memory lead him he tries to hold onto the laughter from the dream, not wanting to think about Thorin’s madness just yet.

When he becomes aware of his surroundings once more he finds himself in the mostly intact library.

It should not be all that surprising, he thinks, that his subconsciousness has taken him here of all places.

That Balin has come to take Bilbo to Thorin is like a torch in his mind, burning steadily and refusing to be put out. Sighing he decides to wait here, for his uncle.

It is about time they talk.

The elderly scholar steps into the room not much later; however, when Gimli moves to leave his dark corner (libraries are _not_ his favourite places to be, no matter Legolas’ insatiable curiosity) he freezes upon seeing the distraught expression on Balin’s face.

Maybe the older one needs some time alone-

…

Before Gimli has the chance to leave Bilbo enters as well, apparently no less upset than Balin.

Just _what_ has Thorin said and done in the meantime??

“Dragon sickness,” Balin says, voice shaky with unshed tears, before turning around to face the hobbit. “I have seen it before. That look… the terrible need. It is a fierce and jealous love, Bilbo. It sent his grandfather mad.”

Gimli finds himself unable to do anything but watch as those two, who perhaps suffer the most under Thorin’s madness, share this moment of pain and fear.

Bilbo gulps visibly.

“Balin, if… if Thorin had the Arkenstone. If… if it was found. Would it… help?”

The old dwarf freezes for a moment, and just like Bilbo Gimli is aware that Balin _knows_. The advisor does not, however, comment on that matter.

“That stone… crowns all,” is what he explains instead. “It is the summit of this great wealth. Would it stay his madness? … no, laddie. I fear it would make it worse. Perhaps it is best if it remains lost.”

That, Gimli cannot help but think, is a moment of history being made – for Durin’s folk anyway.

Balin averts his gaze, then, and after giving a shaky nod Bilbo leaves.

Gimli stays in his corner, unsure whether his uncle would wish for anyone’s presence right now, and is all the more startled when the older one suddenly steps beside him and sits down next to him, on the ground, their backs against an ancient shelf.

“He should not have to see him like this.”

Balin’s voice sounds old and wearied, and Gimli does not need to ask for the identity of neither ‘he’ nor ‘him’.

“He does not understand. Being a hobbit… how could he? Their love is for all things growing, not for rock and stone. Gold, gems, jewels… they do not sing to him, like they do to us. To see Thorin… the King… giving up everything – him, us, the boys – for lifeless gold? I cannot imagine.”

The older dwarf nods, sighing. “I wish there was something we could do.”

Gimli hesitated for a moment. Then-

“There might be. We… will see.”

Balin’s eyes are wide with desperation and the _need to know_ how Thorin can possibly be helped.

He does not, however, ask the questions Gimli is not ready to answer.

There is a reason the time-traveller loves the aged dwarf so dearly.

The two dwarves spend a few hours in companionable, sad silence until Dwalin comes to find them.

“The King commanded us to barricade the Gate. It is to be safe come morning.”

The brothers exchange one heavy, meaningful glance then, before leading the way towards the Gates. Gimli follows them quietly, trying not to think about how no dwarf would ever close their door to their One. This is painful in a whole new way, and he cannot help but think that elves, with their open buildings and wide forests – that they _could_ not even close their doors on anyone.

Never before was following Thorin’s command that hard.

He does, however, do as his King bid, and come morning the Erebor is a fortress made safe no matter Kíli’s pleads and Fíli’s attempts to make Thorin see reason.

The stonework is, of course, impeccable, and when Bard comes to them in seek of aid after sunrise the King under the Mountain rejects him, sure that his walls will stand. He does still trust, it seems, in the abilities of his companions, if not in their loyalty.

Gimli ignores the way his heart bleeds, his sharp eyes on the elves positioned on the walls of Dales instead of on his King.

Some things simply hurt too much.

From afar he watches as Thorin gifts the hobbit a certain mithril coat, blue eyes shining with more than fever for but a few moments, and no matter the pain – he cannot help but be grateful for this moment.

Without it… Moria would have been Frodo’s tomb as much as Balin’s.

The day passes quietly as they put together proper armour and weapons (and he should _not_ have to tell Ori and Bofur and Bombur that they ought to find suits that they can actually move in, and wield their chosen weapons, instead of those that look the heaviest and prettiest!) and keep searching for the Arkenstone in any free moments.

Legolas does not come to meet Gimli even once, and while that is certainly the _prudent_ thing to do it does not mean he enjoys it in any way.

(He is ever glad that Fíli and Kíli know nothing of his pining. They would compare him to a swooning human maiden down with her first crush, and attempt to put him into skirts. He would never live it down.)

After evening has fallen most of the company retire even as Thorin stays on his throne, brooding. Gimli once again makes for the Gates, the battlements far safer to sit on now.

Should any of his friends come by he might as well claim to be keeping watch… and watch out he does, if for a shock of golden hair instead of enemies.

The sun has long set (and not even the pointed tip of an elven ear has come close enough to the mountain for him to spot it) when yet another quiet and pointy-eared creature attempts to creep past him – only to be terribly startled when he realizes that Gimli is very much awake, and has not fallen asleep sitting.

Bilbo makes a tiny squealing noise in the back of his throat and has hurriedly opened his mouth to explain, a little panicky, when the dwarf manages to pre-empt him, pointing at the rope the hobbit is carrying.

“Need any help?”

“Y-yes, thank you,” their burglar gasps, desperately attempting to keep quiet, and Gimli simply reaches for the rope and wraps it around one of the crenels once, before gripping it tightly and positioning his left leg against the battlements.

“Go on,” he motions for the hobbit to start climbing, and after a short moment of surprise Bilbo nods and makes to crawl across the battlement.

Sitting atop them he stops again, darts the time-traveller an uncertain glance.

“Are you sure- … I mean can you _hold_ \- …should you not maybe _tie_ this?”

Gimli lifts one bushy red eyebrow and allows the thick muscles in his upper arms to bulge as he constricts them – arms that are used to tearing a heavy ax through armour and up against other weapons – and Bilbo squeals again, before finally reaching for the rope himself and scrambling down the vertical surface.

Holding the hobbits meagre weight is as easy as he expected.

When he has reached the ground Gimli pulls the rope back up and rolls it up, explaining with a low voice:

“Should some of the others happen to come by… they better not see this. I will stay here for most of the night, and can help you back up when you return. Should I leave, though, I will _tie_ the rope and leave it out for you.”

Proving that his hearing is indeed fine enough for him to have picked up the words Bilbo nods as he makes his way across the pieces of the broken bridge, before darting down that path towards Dale after one last glance at the redhead.

Sighing Gimli throws the rolled-up rope into a corner, before settling in to watch the horizon once again.

The hobbit, talented at hiding and going unseen as his people are, is long gone from sight when his keen eyes find the path again, no matter the dwarf’s excellent night vision.

Many quiet, calm hours pass and when he spots Bilbo once again – not long before dawn – he barely manages to prepare the rope again before the burglar (and now he _is_ a burglar, having taken and given away the Arkenstone) comes darting across the broken bridge. He climbs up clever as a squirrel, and has clambered across the battlement in no time.

His eyes, Gimli notices, are different now than when he left – dark with worry, still, but with a different kind of worry.

The hobbit lingers after he has reclaimed his rope, clearly hesitating, and his gaze is lost in the night (or rather avoiding the dwarf’s) when he finally speaks up, voice small:

“You… you know what I did… do you?”

Gimli gives an affirmative grunt as he moves to stand next to the younger one, both their eyes on the ruins of Dale.

“Was it… was it _wrong_?”

The time-traveller cocks his head, wishing Legolas were here. The elf certainly is better at that kind of conversation.

“As a dwarf of Durin’s line,” he slowly begins “I certainly should be telling you that it was. As Gimli, time-traveller and elf-friend, Balin’s nephew and the boys’ cousin, however… I know why you did it, and I never thought that you did any less than the best you could. While it still might have been wrong, might have been a mistake… you _stole_ in order to advert a battle and _save lives_ , no matter the consequences for your own person, and that is courageous and right in a way few other things could ever be.”

They stand in silence for some time.

Gimli does not miss the way Bilbo’s shoulders straighten – before slumping again.

“So… I already did this, the last time?”

“You did.”

“Then… it did not work.” He sounds defeated.

The dwarfs looks at him, the question written into his dark eyes, and Bilbo sighs.

“You… you implied that Thorin’s life might be at stake. I figured… I figured it would be through the impending battle.”

Gimli hesitates for a moment, before coming to a decision.

“His life _is_ at stake,” he quietly admits. “Your actions… served to dissuade Bard and Thranduil from wanting to go to war over what they wanted and – in the men’s case – needed. However, you forgot Thorin’s madness… and Dáin.”

“Madness.”

The hobbit says the word slowly, as if tasting it on his tongue. “Though… he is mad, is he not?”

“Aye,” Gimli agrees, voice heavy. “I am afraid he is. Like his grandfather was.”

Again, silence falls.

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Not right now. We… Legolas and me, we are still waiting for the Lady Galadriel’s opinion on the matter. We hope… we dearly hope that it will reach us in time to prevent the worst.”

“If… if she told you not to change anything. Would you…”

“…let them die?” Gimli pauses for a moment, and his insides twist as he finally accepts the painful truth. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

 

_TBC_


	21. To rush out and reveal himself and tell all the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **21\. To rush out and reveal himself and tell all the truth**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 12: Inside Information_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Some things simply need to be done.
> 
> I _really_ hope you'll all like that chapter...

### 21\. To rush out and reveal himself and tell all the truth

Bilbo stares at Gimli, tears in his eyes, and pain – but no accusation.

“I do not think I could do that.”

“Neither did I, however… there are things coming, things much more important than you and me and Thorin. Erebor _will_ be a dearly-needed stronghold even if it is Dáin who sits upon the throne, and time will continue as it will. I simply… I simply hope that this is not what it _should_ be like. What the Valar _meant_ it to be like.”

A moment passes, and then short, thin arms are wrapped around Gimli’s broad torso.

The dwarf fights to keep back the tears threatening to fall as he holds the younger one close, careful not to hurt him, and when Bilbo pulls back again he even manages to return the hobbits equally tearful smile.

“I am glad it was someone like you who was sent back,” Bilbo murmurs, and then turns to dart back into the mountain, leaving a stunned Gimli behind.

“I heard Thranduil mention that they are to march upon the mountain two hours after the sun has risen, in order to inform Thorin of the trade that has been struck,” reaches his ears and tears him from his stupor; however, when he turns the hobbit has long vanished into the dark halls and tunnels of Erebor.

The time-traveller stands flummoxed for more than a minute, shocked and warmed at the same time.

While Bilbo seems to be placing an awful lot of faith in him… it is also incredible – knowing that someone who is not of his immediate family, who he has not travelled across time with, who has not known him for all that long… trusts him like that.

He could not say how much time has passed – standing there on the battlements, staring off into the sunrise and feeling ridiculously happy – when he finally shakes off that stupor and, after one last glance at the elves waiting on the walls of Dale’s ruins (their armour shining in the newly rising light), follows the hobbit into the depths of Erebor once again.

A little unsure what he should do (there is, as he very well knows, little use in searching for the Arkenstone inside these walls) he trudges down towards the room he saw the others make camp in last night, and the princes throw themselves at him the moment he enters.

“Gim,” Kíli whispers into his neck, where his face is hidden, “we need to talk. Alone.”

Raising an eyebrow at the old nickname (Legolas better _never_ hear that one!) the time-traveller wraps his arms around his young friend and cousin, before breathing “alright, follow my lead” into Kíli’s dark mane and then promptly burying his blunt fingertips in the prince’s ribs where he knows him to be the most vulnerable.

Kíli screeches with surprise and the terrible torture of being tickled; and Fíli immediately throws himself at Gimli in order to avenge his brother.

The time-traveller barely manages to keep standing underneath the playful assault and returns the shove, which leaves the youngest with the possibility to attack on his part. His quick fingers wrap around the tip of Gimli’s fiery red beard, and _tug_.

Gimli roars and his hands let go of Fíli again only to be buried in Kíli’s sides with double the intensity of before, and after squealing rather unmanly the dark-haired prince takes off at a run. The redhead dashes after him, followed by the blonde, and neither of them needs to look back in order to know that Balin and Dwalin will be shaking their heads fondly, and that Glóin will know how to excuse them should Thorin come looking for his nephews.

The boys lead Gimli into an old apartment far off the treasury, and when they turn around to look at him all laughter is gone from their eyes.

“Gim,” Kíli says again, eyes wide and looking so terribly young that Gimli finds himself unable to scold him for even uttering that name. “What is happening? What is wrong with Uncle?”

And with that one sentence, guilt comes crushing down on the time-traveller.

“I did promise Dwalin to shield you good as I can,” he admits miserably. “Instead, I wallowed in self-pity with Bilbo, and ran when I could.”

Fíli is more composed than his brother. However, he too is visibly shaken. “…shield us? From what?”

“From what you saw already.” Gimli closes his eyes in defeat. “I… I knew, of course, that it would happen… and Balin and Dwalin realized the moment it began. I should not… I should not have let all this distract me so much that I forgot to distract _you_.”

Once more this day arms are wrapped around his strong torso.

This time, however, they are thick and muscled; and there is four of them.

A little awkwardly Gimli manages to return the three-way-hug.

“I am sorry.

“You should not be,” Fíli murmurs from where his face is hidden in the wild red hair. For once, it seems, he is too shaken to be strong for his brother. “We are adults. Uncle deemed us old enough to face a dragon – surely we should also be old enough to be able to stand… to stand…-” He gulps, unable to finish his sentence.

Gimli shakes his head determinedly, ignoring the way two pained faces receive one or the other slap by his braids.

“No!” he disagrees hotly, “no one is _ever_ old enough to stand seeing one they consider family disappear slowly! No, being of age changes nothing about how this hurts. I…”

“Does it hurt you too?” Kíli interrupts quietly, almost hesitantly.

The oldest sighs.

“Oh Kee,” he returns the favour of using old, long-buried nicknames, “of course it does. I… I never knew him like you do, obviously, but he is family no less. And I… I am terribly pained to see him thusly. However… I am rather distracted by feeling guilty, and worrying over what is going to happen next…”

“What _is_ going to happen?” Fíli asks, whom Gimli’s admission seems to have given some of his usual countenance back.

“And why guilt?” Kíli adds, still rather subdued.

Gimli smiles wryly and rather bitterly.

“I could have saved all those people in Laketown. You do realize that, right?”

The blond prince pulls back far enough to be able to look at him, and his eyes are way too old for his age. Too serious. It comes with the burden of being the heir to the throne of a barely won-back kingdom, Gimli supposes.

“Everyone who leads will have to make sacrifices at some point,” he says, and it sounds so terribly matter-of-factly. “Every commander will lose soldiers. Every king will lose subjects. And with how you are acting… you might as well be leading all of Middle-Earth against whatever enemy you found in the future. So… if sacrificing those men of Laketown, or maybe even some of us, is what will be necessary in order to prevent whatever Mahal and the Valar sent you here for to keep from happening – then you will need to be strong enough to do so. And I know that you will be.”

Gimli gives the younger one a rather crooked smile.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I already received a similar scolding from Bilbo last night… I guess I might actually be a little too self-pitying.”

Fíli opens his mouth to answer; however, Kíli is faster.

“Bilbo knows?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

Oh bother.

“He does,” the time-traveller nods, barely managing not to flinch or look guilty. “He… heard me talk aloud of things that should have better been left unsaid, and I forgot about his sharp ears. It was a mistake… as he might well play an important role in what is to come if I am allowed to change some things, though, it was perhaps for the better.”

Kíli’s eyes widen at that, before taking on a crestfallen shade.

“No important roles for us?”

Gimli cannot help but laugh softly at that. “If I am to make any changes, you can take whatever important roles you wish,” he promises.

If the Lady Galadriel permits him to save them, after all, they will be alive enough to do whatever they want.

Fíli returns the time-traveller’s treacherously soft smile.

“Just… one more question. Is he… will he snap out of it?”

That much, the redhead decides, he can tell them.

“Aye, he will.”

It is only true – even if perhaps only for a painfully short time.

Kíli brightens up a little.

“Thanks, Gim,” he whispers, and this time there is a tiny bit of cheek in the nickname.

Gimli snorts and pinches him. “I am happy I could help, Fee, _Kee_. If you need something – I am sure you will know how to find me. You always do.” He gives them a toothy grin at that, and both brothers return it. “Now, off with you two – go and be in somebody’s way, as usual.”

He receives pinches in return, and then the two young princes take off as he prompted, both visibly more at ease than before.

Smiling indulgently the redhead sets to follow them back to the main hall at a more sedate pace, and he is on his way to move further down and towards the treasury when he sees a flash of golden.

Within the blink of an eye he has raced for the alcove Legolas has hid in.

“ _Are you mad?_ ” he hisses angrily, “ _What are you doing in here when you do not know where Thorin is?_ ”

“ _Delivering the latest news_ ,” is the amused answer. “ _Be calm, mellon nín. I merely came to inform you of Mithrandir’s arrival. He brought word of an army of yrch marching here, they left from Dol Guldur. At the moment he is attempting to convince my father of fighting with, instead of against you. Ada, as agreed upon, is making things difficult. He is having a ball, I am sure._ ”

The elf snickers, and Gimli finds himself unable to suppress a snort.

“ _As for Tauriel, she should be on her way back from Gundabad and return with numbers within a few hours. That should help us plan-_ ”

“How,” a menacing voice rumbles, “did you get in here?”

Gimli freezes.

His heart seems to stop for a moment before beginning to race.

This cannot be happening.

_Thorin_ -

Legolas’ eyes are wide.

Closing his eyes the dwarf takes a deep breath, does his best in an attempt to regain his composure, and, ever so slowly, turns around – only to see Thorin Oakenshield stand before him, eyes dark with dragon sickness and hands grabbing the hilt of his sword (the point of which is entirely not far enough from the time-traveller’s head).

Behind him, the rest of the Company is gathering, staring and waiting for an explanation.

Glóin’s eyes are wide with shock after having heard his son whisper elvish words.

Clearly, he has made the connection – that this must be the one who Gimli has come across time with… the One.

His son’s heart – given to an _elf_.

And this terribly rude creature, no less…

Gimli can almost see his father think; however, there are more pressing matters.

“Oh, it was not all that hard,” Legolas, having recovered from his shock, answers the King under the Mountain’s question haughtily as he studies his fingernails, and the younger time-traveller fights the urge to hide his face in his hands. “We are good climbers, you know? Barricading that door did not make entering even remotely difficult for me.”

Legolas will never let any opportunity to irk a dwarf slip, will he?

Thorin raises his sword a little farther, madness shining in his eyes as he snarls:

“You should never have come here! Why did you sneak into my kingdom, weed-eater? Were you sent to spy upon me? To steal my gold? To kill me when I sleep? I shall show you-”

“Stop.”

Gimli’s voice is commanding

It is the voice of someone who has seen the worst, and who will do anything to stop it from happening again.

The words are filled with so much authority, strength, pain and _knowledge_ that even the fevered dwarf’s rant comes to a halt for a few moments.

Long enough for the time-traveller to put himself between the one he calls King and the one he has given his heart and soul to.

The choice is almost too easy to make.

“He came here for me.”

“For you,” Thorin echoes, his voice dangerously calm, eyes burning with fever.

“Aye.” Gimli says nothing more.

There is nothing he would not do to protect Legolas, even if it is the elf’s own carelessness that has brought him into this particular situation. (It is not like he himself has not acted with recklessness more than once, his dearest friend always being there to help him.)

“He… they fought together in Laketown,” Kíli quietly offers an explanation. “The elf saved us, together with another.” The dark-haired prince and his brother are standing a little to the side, closer to Glóin and Bilbo than the rest of the group, their eyes wide. That is not, Gimli imagines, what the blonde would have expected to happen next. (Neither did he.)

The younger one is clinging to Fíli’s arm with a vice-like grip, eyes wide with fear – fear for the life of his best friend, and for his beloved uncle’s mind.

“Saved you?” Thorin echoes, outraged, raising the sword a little higher.

Gimli stands before him proudly, the tip of the weapon at the height of his eyes now.

“We were attacked by orcs,” Bofur quickly, desperately barges in, even as he edges closer towards where the princes are standing. “Don’t know why, but there was a whole lot of ‘em when we were tryin’ to help Kíli. They must’ve tracked, an’ found us.”

“One of the elves healed him,” Fíli murmurs, clearly still terrified with how close he had come to losing his brother. “He… he would have died, had she not helped.”

“You let an _elf_ touch your brother?” the King roars, the news fuelling his rage even further. He might foam at the mouth, for all that he acts like a rabid animal.

Óin’s voice is angry as he takes a step back towards his own brother and the princes. “I could not have helped him! Had you rather seen him die?” His right hand is in a position in which it will easily reach the small throwing knife his nephew knows to be hidden beneath his mail.

It warms the redhead’s heart – to know that his uncle would intervene, although he still mistrusts ‘Gimin’, has only just caught him conversing with an elf and would normally be the last to stop his cousin, his _King_ , from anything.

He would, however, do what is right.

Also, his aim with said knife is immaculate.

“You should never have let an elf help!” Thorin hisses furiously, unaware of the decision his healer has come to make – or of the way his nephews flinch upon hearing his words.

Fíli’s eyes widen with shock, and helpless pain. Kíli, upon his uncle’s reaction, closes his own lids, clearly fighting back tears and unknowingly fuelling the rage suddenly filling his brother. Bilbo, who has been standing behind them, takes a step forward and wraps his thin arms around the princes, who are clinging to each other. The boys, who have come to think of the hobbit as another parental figure during their quest, turn in his embrace and hide their faces in his curls, even though they have to stoop to reach them.

They are not even remotely successful in their attempt to hide their tears.

Or the agonized glances towards Thorin.

Gimli sees the way both princes stare at the dwarf who has been like a father two them, who has helped bring them up and who they love boundlessly, betrayal and hurt making their eyes shine, and that is the moment he finally _snaps_.

Some things simply need to be done.

“Are you completely out of your mind?” he hears himself roar, the fury which is making his blood boil resounding in the hall. (Thorin _is_ out of his mind, oh, he knows that! Still, he cannot watch his friends bleed like that!) “They are your _sistersons_ , the children you claimed to love like a father! If Tauriel had not helped Kíli he would be _dead_ now! You cannot be serious when you say that you would not care!”

Judging from the looks in his companions’ eyes he might be quite a sight in that moment when his rage and disappointment finally boil over, making to take on the reason for their very awakening.

Fíli and Kíli, still clinging to a furious Bilbo, give him watery, grateful smiles – which drop from their lips like stones when they hear their uncle’s reaction.

“What I really do not care for is to hear your opinion!” the King under the Mountain rages, his whole body shaking with uncontained fury. The point of the shining sword is trembling uncontrolledly, a mere eight inches from Gimli’s eyes. “You let an _elf_ into _my_ kingdom! One of those traitorous bastards! Thranduil’s folk! How _dare_ you! I should have you behead him right there, and then lock you up until you starve like traitors deserve to!”

In all probability Thorin really and honestly is fully unaware of the fact that he is treading dangerous territory – and surging forward with full speed.

A small part of Gimli’s mind thinks his eyes might be shining with a madness of their own now – a madness of an entirely different kind than his King’s.

Legolas is a calming presence in his back, his hand having moved to lie on his shoulder blade some time ago, without any of the other dwarves ever seeing the physical contact.

It is why he feels the stiffening of the long body, although it is no more than a tiny movement, at the King’s words. He is, however, tuned to his beloved, now more than ever with the threat of _death_ hanging over the one his heart has chosen to love forever.

The elf’s reaction comes at the mention of Gimli’s starvation, not at that of his own decapitation, and that further deepens his rage.

Thorin, King under the Mountain as he may be, has only just threatened to take the life of his One.

There is but one side left to choose, but one possible outcome-

…

It is the hand wandering to fully sit atop his shoulder, hardening its grip until sharp fingernails are digging almost painfully into the strong strands of muscle, and the ghostly wisp of “ _You do not want to do that_ ” reaching his ear, barely more than a breath of wind, that stops him.

Just like that, the fury seeps from his blood as the iron leaves his limbs, the darkness in his mind drawing back and his fingers relaxing their grip on his ax.

Legolas is the only one who might have pulled him back from a wrath started because someone threatened the elf’s life.

It is all he needs to regain his composure.

He is sane enough, now, to see the panic in his father’s eyes, and the endless relief replacing it when Glóin realizes that Gimli will not react like any other dwarf whose very heart was attacked like that would.

They share a short moment of understanding, before the time-traveller lets his eyes travel further.

They find Fíli and Kíli, lingering in the hobbit’s arms. The princes are as close as physically possible, the older one having wrapped his free arm around his brother and whispering to him in an attempt to comfort. Kíli’s features look like set in stone, however, and where their hands are connected the knuckles of both are white with the force of the grip. Bilbo’s face, almost hidden behind the taller dwarves’, is one portrait of fury.

Next to them Óin’s hand is slowly retreating from the hilt of the knife, his stance fading back to attentive instead of battle-ready. His eyes tell the time-traveller that his uncle, too, has understood what his reaction to Thorin’s threat has meant – what the elf is to him.

As his heart warms with love for that family member he had regarded so little before this journey Gimli averts his gaze, or else he might say something sappy, and finds himself staring at Thorin instead, feeling the dread pool in his stomach. He had known that this would be happening, and still… it hurts to see this dwarf, his friend, his _King_ like that – ready to sacrifice even his sistersons in his madness. Willing to tear apart a dwarf and his One, by choosing death for the latter.

And although he and Legolas have not decided yet whether they will change history he can no longer watch this happen, cannot withhold the words burning on his tongue even one more moment.

They set his mouth on fire just like fear and anger are blazing in his blood, snapping his self-control once again (too much has happened already that day, his nerves are frayed and trembling) and then he is yelling:

"You are my King, Thorin Oakenshield, always have been and always will be, and I have been loyal to you for longer than you can possibly imagine! However, if you do not find back to yourself right now – I will not hesitate to beat you as long and hard as necessary! For if you do not come to your senses _very_ soon, you will be King under the Mountain for no more than an awfully short time, and everything you have worked for will be worth nothing!"

Thorin boils over, once again – never having cooled down.

"Are you, a subject of mine, threatening to take my crown?!" His eyes are shining with more madness and paranoia than ever.

It breaks Gimli’s heart; however, he, too, is still raw and angry.

It is testament to his loyalty, his _belief_ , that he answers with calm words instead of furious fists.

"Never,” he vows, “Azog, however, is threatening to take your _life_!"

In that very moment a beautiful bird, the kind of which he has never seen, sails into the dark, wide halls of Erebor and gracefully lands on Legolas' shoulder. It sings a wonderful tune that has even Thorin quiet down for the moment and the elf's eyes lighten up as he listens, understands.

It seems he cannot wait to relay the news to his friend, as he quickly translates what he has been told, not even bothering to speak Sindarin in order to keep it from the dwarves:

"It is from the Lady Galadriel! She lets it be known that she believes we have been sent here for the purpose of righting the wrongs!” Relief and excitement are colouring his voice, making his words smoother and more otherworldly than they would otherwise have been spoken in Westron. The redhead’s heart stutters at the sight of shining eyes and eager lips.

“From what she has seen both in our minds and her mirror, we have done nothing that would justify sending us back here as punishment, to suffer – to do naught but watch. Also, what has happened has brought great pain for so many, pain she does not believe was inflicted by the Valar on purpose, but by one Maia opposing them. They will wish to rectify that, she assumes, and the two of us have been deemed able of altering the course of history. Thus, she says, we shall do about the battle what we think necessary, and afterwards we are to have council concerning the R- ... rest. Also, she is sending Haldir with a troop of Rivendell and Lórien warriors, both archers and swordfighters. They ought to arrive just after dawn. It seems that, once again, Lord Elrond chose to offer his help as well.”

The last remark, clearly added by Legolas and not translated, lightens Gimli’s heart even more.

Just in time, he thinks, the Lady responded just in time, and her warriors will arrive just in time before the orcs’ attack.

This is so very typical for those incorrigible long-legs with their muddled sense of time, to have him worry and make himself crazy until the very last minute!

It is that single, ridiculous thought, together with the endless relief rushing through his veins and the way his heart suddenly is so light with relief, which allows a single tear to escape from his eye and roll into his beard.

Legolas’ hand on his shoulder is comforting now, companionable and reassuring, and he could not feel shame over having shared this moment of weakness with the elf even if he wanted to.

He turns his head until his gaze meets one from bright blue depths, and when their eyes connect the blonde lets a few precious pearls of jubilant, glorious laughter escape, soon joined by a much deeper guffaw.

Only then does Gimli turn back around to meet the reactions of his companions.

He is met with incomprehension from everyone but four.

Glóin, it seems, has overcome his shock of realizing his son has chosen a woodland elf as his One – for the moment (there surely is a healthy rant still to come). For now, however, he appears to focus on the information said elf has only just disclosed. His eyes are wide with fear upon having heard Legolas talk about the pain so many have suffered, and about the Valar wishing to right some wrongs. He, quite clearly, does not even want to imagine what must have happened. Also, he seems to be rather angry at the fact that his son is the one to carry this burden – this responsibility.

Next to him, Óin is looking at Gimli with wholly new eyes. It appears he has drawn the right conclusions – both concerning the situation, and who ‘Gimin’ really is. There is a tiny, proud smile on his lips.

Bilbo, of course, is no surprise. He has, after all, even spoken to them about the sacrifices they may have to make. His formerly angry features are lighter now, open and hopeful as he hears them talk of being allowed to change what went wrong. His eyes are glued to Thorin’s back, and it is not hard to imagine what he is thinking.

Balin’s eyes are huge. He, too, seems to have picked the truth of Gimli having travelled through time from Legolas’ words, and his quick mind is already scrambling to process all the information, draw what conclusions can be drawn, and make new plans – new strategies. There is a reason Thorin values him so highly as a counsellor besides his never dying loyalty and friendship.

The others, however, are staring; their faces open with confusion. Even Fíli and Kíli obviously did not understand what the news mean, too distracted by their own pain.

The point of Thorin’s sword has not wavered.

Gimli chooses to ignore them all, for the moment, and concentrate on the matters at hand.

“Best then to send that bird on to your father, laddie, and tell him about the news. He should understand its trill too, aye? We ought to assemble and finally make proper plans for the battle, together with Bard… after we have dealt with Thorin, of course.”

Legolas nods and turns his fair head to whisper soft, melodious words to the bird as his friend, fellow and companion lets his gaze travel over all present, dwarves and hobbit, and finally stop on his King. As he ignores the wondering whispers of “His father?” and “Deal with Thorin” he musters all his courage in the face of one raging, mad King under the Mountain.

Never had he wished to speak to the Dwarflord he would follow into any battle in such a way as he is about to; however, Thorin’s life is on the stake, as are Fíli’s and Kíli’s.

And some things simply need to be done.

Therefore he takes a deep breath and a step forward until the now wavering point of the fine sword all but touches his forehead, Legolas’ presence as always calming and reassuring in his back. He is not afraid that Thorin might kill him in his wrath – he would _die before his stroke fell_. He does, however, fear that he may not be able to tear the King from his madness, to convince him of his honesty and loyalty – to save the lives of those he considers _family_.

The son of Thráin, grandson of Thrór, is muttering angry words about betrayal and darkness, the same darkness he accuses Gimli of shining in his eyes as fever.

Closing his eyes for but a moment the redhead lets his mind travel to dangers and terrors long passed but still waiting to come upon them, and his memories of fear and hope and loss and companionship and death and victory and hatred and _love_ flood him like the water that must have sprung forward and reclaimed the blackened Wizard’s Vale after the ents broke the dam – no less powerful, consuming and unstoppable.

“You. Stop. Right. Now.”

Behind him, the calming monotony of Legolas’ breathing stutters for a moment as the blonde hears and feels everything that has brought these words forward.

Thorin himself freezes upon the command which is just as powerful as the emotions behind it, his eyes wide.

“Because if you do not then, Mahal forgive me, I will make you.” The memory of three bodies lain out, of a kingly burial and of mournful songs resounding in wide halls, of his own tears and pain and _loss_ clearer than his words are as threatening as they are desperate, his dark eyes shining in a way that stays even Thorin’s tongue for a little while longer.

“And you better heed my words, Thorin, son of Thráin, King under the Mountain, if you value your life and those of your sistersons.”

The King’s deep blue eyes widen once more, pupil’s still diluted with gold fever – yet more lucid than he has been in days (shocking him thusly, it seems, was the only chance to at least make him listen) he lets his gaze travel to find the two youngest he loves so dearly, their eyes glistening with terror as they, finally, begin to understand.

Fíli has never let go of his brother; now, however, they are fairly clinging to each other as they realize what this means. One – they know – will have to fall before the other.

It is a truth so painful to accept that it is near unbearable.

Then, suddenly, the Lady Galadriel’s winged messenger pushes from Legolas’ shoulder and sails off across the hall and towards the barred gate, breaking the spell of the moment.

The elf steps forward to stand beside his friend now, his hand never having left the redhead’s back, and Thorin seems to be regaining his composure – which is not, in any way, desirable.

Gimli realizes that it is time.

He takes a deep breath, exchanges a last glance with his elf, closes his eyes in another attempt to collect his thoughts and courage.

He had hoped so much that this moment would come, that he would finally be able to tell his King who he really is and what is awaiting them in the battle to come – he had not, however, imagined this conversation to happen during a desperate attempt to tear Thorin from his madness, in the knowledge that if he fails, all will be lost.

Well.

It is not like he has not been under the pressure of another’s life before – he is, after all, still one of the Nine Walkers.

“My name is Gimli Glóin’s son.”

 

_TBC_


	22. As old memories were stirred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **22\. As old memories were stirred**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 2: The Council of Elrond_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> It's time for a story to be told.
> 
> (LJ is being a total and utter BITCH -.-)

### 22\. As old memories were stirred

“My name is Gimli Glóin’s son,” he begins, deep voice rumbling through the hall. The direct approach, he has decided, is the one most promising.

There is a general gasp of disbelief from those he calls companions, the ones he has loved as family ever since he came to the Lonely Mountain the first time, and half of them even before that.

Fíli, Kíli and Glóin, who already know, are still too shocked by the previous revelations to react in any way.

Thorin’s eyes are wide with incredulity and doubt.

“I was born in the year 2879 and raised in the Ered Luin. When the year 2941 came and your company left to reclaim Erebor I was too young to be allowed to come. I stayed home with my mother, waiting and fearing together with her. When news of your victory finally arrived we left with the first caravan, excited and impatient to join you – only to find that my father was well and alive, while others had died.”

He takes a short moment to regain his composure.

No matter what he has lived through since that terrible moment, no matter the darkness he has fought against – never will he forget the pain he felt when he learned that his dear friends and the uncle had perished.

He ignores the way Balin and Dwalin exchange alarmed glances, and how Bilbo clings even more tightly to the princes, eyes still on Thorin’s back and filled with the horror of finally knowing for sure. Gimli, in the meantime, takes comfort in the warmth of the hand on his back and the calming presence next to him as he takes a deep breath before continuing:

“The Mountain had been reclaimed, but the King and the princes had been lost for it. Still… Erebor was ours, won back from the dragon and defended against orcs and goblins. Under Dáin’s rule we rebuilt and soon went to work and live in the mountain as we did in the days of old, even as more and more caravans arrived still. We had a good King, a good life; and Erebor, who you had fought for with your lives, prospered and returned to glory. It was all you had ever hoped for.”

He takes another deep breath, then, and shares a short moment of love when his eyes meet his father’s.

They then move on to find the elf’s.

Incredibly much is shared in that one, short glance that follows. They need no more to communicate and decide whether to also talk of what came later, and when Gimli silently pleads that he may tell them – may tell his _family_ why he has really been sent here – blue orbs sparkle in agreement.

The younger of the two then takes a deep breath as he remembers how those hours of darkness and companionship alike had started.

It is high time he tell his story.

Glóin, at least, deserves to know.

“Then the year 3018 came and the Lord Elrond of Rivendell called upon the free peoples of Middle-Earth to meet in council in the Last Homely House, for he had grim news to share. ‘Adad and I were part of the envoy sent by King Dáin, and upon our arrival we found that the news were grim indeed – the One Ring had been found.”

Balin gasps for air, and Óin’s features are dark.

Once again there is clear disbelief shining in the eyes of the company, and once again Gimli chooses to ignore it.

“It was decided that the Ring had to be destroyed. A hobbit, of all creatures, volunteered to take it to Mordor and cast it into the fires of Mount Doom, the only place where it might be unmade. We were humbled in the face of such courage from one so little, and much as Gandalf pledged to help the one called Frodo Baggins Legolas offered his bow and I my ax.”

Both pride and sadness in Glóin’s eyes goes almost unseen, for Bilbo squeals with shock.

“ _B-Baggins??_ ”

“A Baggins indeed,” Legolas answers, his smile betraying all his love and respect for the tiny hobbit who had carried the fate of Middle-Earth on his shoulders; and who had saved them all. “Son of Primula Brandybuck and Drogo Baggins he was the best the Shire could bring forth, except maybe for one son of a Baggins an a Took.” There is a mischievous twinkle in the elf’s deep eyes, and Bilbo blushes ever so slightly.

“The three of us were not the only ones to pledge him allegiance, though. Two great warriors of men joined in the attempt to save the free peoples of Middle-Earth – one a ranger, but more noble than all else, and one the son of a Lord and Steward, standing for all of Gondor. That, however, was not all.” He exchanges a fond glance with Legolas, before his eyes find Bilbo’s once more and he cannot fight the smile that comes to his lips.

“Three more hobbits volunteered their help – a Took, a Brandybuck and a Gamgee. It was their courage which weighted the heaviest, for they left behind a life full of peace, while we others were hardened warriors. Never the less, a fellowship was formed that day, the Fellowship of the Ring. Later we were called the Nine Walkers, as opposed to the evil Nine Riders of Sauron, and we set out to take the Ring to Mordor while the rest of Middle-Earth fell into war.”

The wonder and fear in the eyes of his companions assure the time-traveller that this is indeed the right time to tell their story. If they know what is to come… they may all see the world a little differently.

“There were many battles to be fought, many enemies to be overcome,” Legolas continues smoothly, his voice bright and clear in the vast hall. “The fellowship broke, and some fell, but in the end – in the end we rode to battle at that Black Gate of Udûn with little hope left, for we knew nothing of Frodo and Sam’s fate. They had, however, endured, and when the Eye fell our battle was won, the freedom of Middle-Earth ensured, and the true heir of Gondor sat upon his rightful throne.”

Now, time to drop the flash flame as Balin had always liked to say.

Time to tell them why exactly what is to happen next shall be important on a larger scale than the survival of single members of their company, hard to comprehend as it may be.

“Without Erebor, though, we might have lost all. It was a strong-point equipped with the best us dwarves had to offer, the watchtower in the East. In the year 3019 Easterlings coming from Rhûn laid siege to our mountain; however, they were defeated by the walls which kept our people safe for so many years, and the superior equipment. In the same year they brought upon these lands the Battle of Dale – in which Dáin fell defending the body of his friend and ally King Brand, grandson of one Bard the Bowman – but Dale and Erebor stood. Never…”

Gimli gulps heavily, before his eyes find Thorin’s and hold them.

Now.

This is _the_ moment.

“Never did I stop wondering how our forces would have fared had you led them.”

There are some sharp intakes of breath.

Dwalin’s eyes are wide and angry; and he is gripping his ax as if the Easterlings were waiting at the Gates already, coming to lay siege to the Lonely Mountain at this very moment.

Dori, Bifur and Óin too seem to be ready to run out and fight; while Balin’s diplomatic mind already appears to be offering all kinds of helpful advice.

Fíli and Kíli might as well not have heard any of his words after he disclosed their impending deaths (quite understandably, for sure).

Thorin’s eyes, while lighter, are still not clear.

The time-traveller decides that it is time to bring this story to an end quickly. He will have to fight with different weapons and strategies, it seems.

“Thus we fought, and won. After we had aided the King of Gondor in handling the chaos that came after the war and his coronation the two of us left Minas Tirith to travel up North, and meet with our families. We had already left again and fulfilled some old promises, and were travelling towards the Guarded City once more following the North-South-Road when we went to sleep one evening, only to wake up here – in this time.”

Legolas’ hand is still on his shoulder, a constant reminder that not even time would part them after all they have gone through together.

Gimli allows himself a tiny glance at the elf and a grim smile, before his eyes move to find his King’s once more.

Thorin is still standing before him, and his own blue orbs are still hazed. The point of Orcrist, however, is no longer dancing before his very eyes, and the dark-haired royal has turned his head to look at his cousin.

Glóin shifts underneath the scrutiny.

Thorin, though, demands naught but confirmation.

“Does he speak true?” he asks, “Is he your son?”

And that he even considers Gimli’s claim to have been made in truth is more than the time-traveller dared wish for after seeing that the madness has still not completely left the King.

Glóin, in the meantime, straightens his shoulders, for that is a question he may easily answer.

“He does,” the redhead affirms solemnly. “My wife and me, we both recognized him when we found him in his bedroom, grown as he is. He did not tell us many things, afraid to change a future he might have to relive, but both of us were soon convince that it could only be him.”

Thorin nods severely, eyes even a little less glazed than before.

“We… we also recognized him,” a small voice speaks up, and Gimli is amazed to see Kíli’s red-rimmed eyes dark with determination, still clinging to Fíli as he is.

Upon hearing those almost hesitantly spoken words the King’s eyes leave Glóin to find his sistersons instead.

“You did?”

Fíli too raises his head then, looking no less worn and terrified than his brother, but with new hope shining in his still tear-brimmed eyes. They have not, it seems, forgotten _Gim’s_ promise: That their beloved uncle may still regain lucidity.

“Yes, Uncle,” the blonde confirms, and Kíli – seeing that Thorin is closer to his old self than he has been in days – immediately adds:

“Please, Uncle, listen to him! He says that we will d- _die_ and, and you, and- …” He forcefully suppresses a sob. “ _Please_!”

Thorin freezes upon hearing the desperation in his sisterson’s voice, and more of the haze clouding his eyes is disappearing. Seeing either of the boys cry – he was never able to stand that. He gulps, and now – _finally_ – appears to be actively fighting the fever holding his mind capture. Painfully slowly he turns to stare at Gimli.

“How do I know you are not a fraud, trying to trick me into helping the elves? After all you brought one here.”

And it is only because he can see the way Thorin is honestly trying to understand, to _make sure_ , that he reacts calmly.

“My King,” he says, and chooses to talk Khuzdul with great deliberation. (Legolas is, after all, perfectly able to understand his words.) “I have been loyal to you ever since I was born, and always stayed loyal even after I was left to mourn at your grave and sing songs of your great deeds. I… you did witness Legolas’ words and my Father’s reaction when we were taken capture in Mirkwood, surely you can imagine what I was taught to think of all elves and those of Mirkwood in particular. When we set out to help destroy the Ring together we were less than civil to each other. Our hate, however, grew to friendship as we fought together in many a battle when all had seemed lost, and both of us learned that we could rely on the other in any situation. There is no one… _no one_ I trust more than him. ”

Those soft fingers are digging painfully into his shoulder again; however, he could not care less.

Also, Glóin seems to be rather torn about his words.

Ahh, never mind – this is about Thorin.

“In all that time, however, I never forgot that once, many years ago, you were my leader as much as my uncle; and in all that time I never stopped wishing that you had been the one to send me to Rivendell in the first place. You… my King.”

He bows at that, making sure to offer his bare neck, and enjoys the moment of silence. All seem to be staring at Thorin once again, reminded of their own devotion, and the King’s eyes have lost a little more of their glaze as he looks at the time-traveller uncertainly.

Gimli offers a crooked smile.

“Fíli and Kíli knew me to speak the truth for I gave them the answer to a question only I could have. I also asked them not to inform you of this, for I knew that if you told me what to do the choice how to handle this would no longer have been my own – had you commanded me, I would have followed.”

There is fever still in Thorin’s deep blue eyes, madness fighting to keep its hold, but a large battle is won: The King, quite obviously, accepts Gimli’s word as truth.

It is as much as he could have hoped for. Now… a last assault needs to be made, one attack with old and new weapons both in order to tear down the last defences.

He is not at all surprised when it is Legolas who leads that attack:

“As you were told before, a battle is to come… a battle against wholly different foes than those you expected to fight. We have information of two armies of orcs and goblins marching here: One from Dol Guldur, which is led by Azog himself, and a second from Gundabad, who are following his spawn Bolg. Gandalf will have seen those from Dol Guldur approach, should you wish for proof, and my companion Tauriel has ridden for Gundabad in order to bring us numbers.”

He looks at the assembled dwarves solemnly, his terribly blue eyes silently begging them to regard him as an ally, not as an enemy.

“The battle before us was latter called the Battle of the Five Armies, as an army of orcs, wargs and goblins fought against an alliance of dwarves, elves, men and eagles. I was there… I lived through it. It was I who killed Bolg after Prince Kíli had died battling him, and my father himself led the elven forces. I watched many a good dwarf fall that day alongside elf and man; and while I have been part of great alliances during the War of the Ring – never was there any quite like this one. Imagine… imagine what we could do were we to fight together from the beginning, what difference we could make with a strategy worthy of the best of Erebor, Dale and Mirkwood!”

His words seem to be ringing in the wide hall as all dwarves are staring at the single elf in wonder, and a little dazedly Gimli cannot help but think that Aragorn could not have spoken better.

(Which is quite the compliment, to be sure.)

To his surprise (it should not be one, really), Dwalin is the first one to react by pumping his fist into the air.

“For Erebor!” he vows, and there is no _against Mirkwood_ hidden in his voice or words.

Balin hesitates for a moment before stepping forward, carefully laying his hand onto Thorin’s heavily armoured arm.

The King flinches, but this time he does not raise Orcrist in threat.

“Thorin,” the elderly advisor says softly, “we would follow you anywhere you lead us. You know we would, no matter your chances and reasons. However… I had rather not see you die for the cause. I am- … _we_ are here to see you on the Throne under the Mountain once more – not in a tomb. Listen to him? Please?”

Thorin stares at his advisor, clearly _fighting_ against the sickness still trying to hold him captive, and Gimli knows it is time to deliver the final blow.

It was, after all, Balin who once told him what he thought had given Thorin the will to overcome his madness in the end.

"Are you to become your grandfather, Thorin?"

And he can almost watch, then, as memories fly by the King’s eyes, memories of a sick Thrór and piles of cold gold where there could have been warmth and family; and then Thorin _roars_ as he pushes away those last lingering claws of the dragon’s fever.

Angrily he reaches for the crown on his head, and throws it to the floor.

It is eerily silent, then, as all are staring at their newly-returned King in awe – awaiting his orders.

Said King, however, whirls around as all that has been said ever since he found the elf in his kingdom catches up with him. His eyes are clear once again as he impatiently shrugs the fur coat off his shoulders, revealing the shining armour beneath, before rushing over to where his sistersons are standing, still clinging to each other.

“I was mad with my greed for gold,” he murmurs, desperation colouring his voice as he struggles to explain past the pain of having hurt them thusly. “I lost sight of what is most important. I… I could never forgive myself if I lost you. I am awfully sorry.”

Kíli’s hand is still clinging to Fíli’s.

That does not, however, stop either of them from throwing themselves at Thorin.

Their uncle catches them easily, stumbling with relief rather than the force of their impact as the dark-haired prince buries his face in the King’s neck (which cannot be comfortable, with the armour still in place, but why would he care?) while the blonde offers a teary smile.

“We know you could not stand losing us… just like we could not stand losing you.”

Thorin gulps visibly, then rests his forehead against Fíli`s.

“Can you… can _you_ forgive me?”

“Of course,” Kíli sniffles from where his face is still hidden. “We knew you were not yourself! Gimin- … Gimli told us that it was possible to snap you out of it, though, and we did not give up hope. Also… apparently certain members of this company told him to _shield_ us from the whole affair!” There he finally raises his head, in order to glower at Dwalin.

The warrior appears to be wholly unaffected by the dark looks the princes are throwing him, simply shrugging his shoulders.

It is Thorin who stops their attempt to light Dwalin on fire with naught but glances – by tightening his embrace one last time before letting go of his sistersons, his blue eyes now bright with relief.

He offers Dwalin a nod that is clearly meant as thanks for his attempt to shield the boys (which stops their glowering rather effectively) before turning to look at Gimli. After a moment of clear hesitation he steps forward, inclines his head.

The time-traveller stands stock still, frozen by shock and hope in equal measure.

“I will forever be deeply indebted to you, Gimli, son of Glóin, if what you speak is true. If you save my sistersons from certain death – there is no way I could ever repay you.” It is him, now, who offers his neck, and Gimli is not the only dwarf to gasp for air. “I shall ask Tharkûn for verification – not for lack of trust, but because this is too big to be taken lightly.”

The redhead nods in order to show his understanding and agreement, and the tiny smile sneaking onto Thorin’s lips is relieved as much as growing in confidence.

“You speak of many orcs and goblins – some from Gundabad no less! – and of circumstances that took the lives of me and my sistersons. Tharkûn, you said, saw those from Dol Guldur leave, and an elven rider has been sent to gather more information about the other army?” He waits for Legolas’ nod of affirmation before continuing. “Then we shall accept your words as truth until we have accurate numbers. For now… it is highly important we make plans fast as we can. When are our enemies due to arrive?”

“At dawn, when you met with my father and Bard for a last time, the attack began,” the single elf explains.

“It is high time, then, to meet and make plans. Talking of an army of dwarves – I assume you spoke of Dáin’s people?”

“We did,” Gimli confirms, almost giddy with relief that Thorin is ready to work with the elves and men. Only the matter of the Arkenstone remains unresolved, then, he thinks and immediately decides not to dwell on that. It will be unpleasant enough whenever the time comes.

“Are… will the men and elves, will _Thranduil_ ” and Thorin does not speak the name with particular fondness, but nothing of the hate is left in his voice, “agree to meet with us?”

“He will,” Legolas immediately affirms. “He knows of the matter, for he immediately noticed the change in me when I woke up in this time. Many of the last days were spent planning, and he is as eager to annoy you as he is to make proper plans. Many elves were lost the last time, as were many dwarves, and he is burning with the wish to remedy this. Between the two of you, I believe, a strategy worthy of the two peoples most glorious at warfare will be made.”

Now, that is more sweet- than pep-talk Gimli thinks. It does, however, seem to work for half of his company are already brimming with pride and the urge to _fight_.

Dwarves.

 

_TBC_


	23. There is matter for a parley and a council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **23\. There is matter for a parley and a council**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 15: The Gathering of the Clouds_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> So.
> 
> Finally, we're getting somewhere... right?

### 23\. There is matter for a parley and a council

“I already instructed my father to ask Bard and Gandalf to meet us in council when I sent the bird to him,” Legolas continues. “Lord Dáin and Marchwarden Haldir will arrive too late to take part in it, I am afraid, but perhaps we can let them know of our plans in advance by sending ravens.”

Thorin hesitates for a moment, visibly fighting the urge to give a negative answer (quite possibly the one that he will not take any orders from an elf), before he nods, turning to look at his company, and his eyes are so very sincere.

“I have done wrong by you, all of you, when I let the dragon’s magic and the gold’s allure cloud my judgement and consume me without ever realizing. After having seen my grandfather fall prey to the same sickness, I _ought_ to have recognized the symptoms in myself, and searched for help. You certainly are not obliged to listen to a King who would have given up his people for _gold_. There is, however, an army coming to take the lives of those we hold dear, so I ask you – will you follow me, one last time?”

Dwalin is the first to step forward, followed by Balin.

“I will always follow you, my King,” Gimli says as Dori nods and Glóin cheers, Legolas’ hand a reassuring warmth on his shoulder.

“We would follow you anywhere, Uncle,” then Fíli vows from where he is still standing with his brother.

“But hopefully it will not be for the last time,” Kíli adds. “We shall have to make sure of that.”

Thorin opens his mouth only to fall silent upon seeing the love (for a friend, for _kin_ ), devotion (to a leader) and resolve (to protect him) in all their eyes.

It must be quite a sight indeed – the company standing united once more, willing to follow their King wherever he may lead. (Just like Gimli once followed Aragorn, even to bargain with the dead.) There could barely be a company more loyal than Thorin Oakenshield’s. (Except for maybe a fellowship sworn to protect a tiny hobbit on his way to save Middle-Earth.)

Gimli looks around his companions, takes in the newfound hope and resolve in their stances. Oh, they still do have _questions_ (the time-traveller sees a well-known curiosity burn in many an eye, so strong that it might rival any elf’s); however, all of them do realize that there is no time for story telling now. After bargains have been made and plans struck, when there is naught to do but to wait for battle, then he shall have the opportunity to give them some of the answers they wish for.

For now, they should rather head to Dale and then sit in council, for dawn and the orcs will come whether they have a strategy or not.

Thorin, too, seems to have come to that conclusion.

“We leave for Dale soon as possible, in order to form that alliance. Who of you are ready to depart right away?” he asks, and it is a just question indeed for half of his companions quite obviously deserted whatever they were doing at the time when Thorin found an elf in his kingdom.

Gimli, however, steps forward along with Legolas (and the little twitch of both annoyance and surprise of the King’s eyebrows is truly amusing), Bilbo, Balin, Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli.

Oh, and Bilbo still needs to admit-

Thorin nods. “All of us help re-open a passage through the gate. Afterwards those of you who are ready accompany me to Dale, all but Balin – I would ask you to stay here and prepare a chamber where we can have this council.”

The elderly advisor nods in acceptance and does not wait for further instructions, instead scurries off already muttering about what will need to be done.

“Ori, as soon as you are able you help him,” Thorin commands. “As for the others – prepare yourselves for battle. Take care to choose weapons and armour you are well acquainted with, the heaviest plate will not protect you if you are unable to move with it.”

“What we still have of your weapons shall be returned,” Legolas adds. “As for Orcrist…”

With one fluid motion he draws the beautiful blade from the sheath at his belt, and with a bow offers it to Thorin to retake it from his outstretched arms.

The dwarf draws in a very surprised breath, before reaching for the sword and giving a bow of his own.

“Your offer to return our weapons is much appreciated. Thank you,” he says hoarsely and sheaths the blade, before turning abruptly and marching for the barricaded gate.

“Alright,” he calls, “let us make a way through. Be careful to construct in in a way that may allow us to easily close it again, should it come to a siege by the orcs and goblins.”

He himself is the first to put his strong hands against a stone in order to push, and Gimli quickly moves into place beside him. As Legolas easily darts up to the battlements and back down on the other side, claiming that he shall help form the outside best he can, Dwalin joins the two and together, they take the first step of opening Erebor to Middle-Earth once again.

With thirteen dwarves who certainly know their stonework collaborating the opening is soon finished, and Thorin returns to quickly change his heavy armour against a lighter one and pick up that fur coat.

He is, after all, King under the Mountain, and as such expected to present himself as a royal.

“We shall bring them here to have council, and offer the protection of Erebor’s walls to the civilians as a token of good-will, and an apology for the slight they suffered when I refused to give them what they were promised. I shall not, however, go back on my word. All of you I would ask to present yourselves as representatives worthy of our kingdom soon as they arrive.”

With that he swipes out of his mountain, and the other five hurry to catch up with him, Legolas still waiting outside.

An easy smile awaits him on the elf’s lips as the fellow time-traveller falls into step next to the red-head – the only position still left unclaimed.

Thorin himself has motioned for Dwalin and Bilbo to go at his sides, for Gimli to walk behind the hobbit, and for the princes to bring up the rear.

The arrangement is a message, and a powerful one indeed.

Thorin Oakenshield is coming in peace, with his strong sword securely in its sheath and only one of his most powerful warriors walking beside him – which is a requirement, not a movement of protection. Letting one of another race march at his side is a truly rare statement, and the second warrior in the group has been assigned to watch the hobbit’s back, not his own. That position is left to an elf, of all people, and while Thorin’s gait is a little stiff his offer to place trust in the sincerity of Thranduil’s people could not be any more obvious. Last but not least his sistersons and the princes of his kingdom, those all of Middle-Earth knows him to value the highest, bring up the rear – the opposite of a show of power, and their own backs exposed.

Oh, no matter what Thranduil may know now – he is surely going to be surprised by this display!

Gimli’s lips move to match Legolas’ easy and rather wicked smile, and for the first time in many _many_ weeks he feels like all will be well in the end. Oh, a long and gruesome battle is awaiting them, and he shall have to do his very best to keep his King and his best friends alive… Still, Thorin has won the fight against the gold-fever, the elf is at his side, and, well, to be honest – battle is what Gimli does best.

The walk to Dales takes them barely any time (from the building tension in Thorin’s shoulders the redhead imagines the King would wish for it to draw out longer) and upon their arrival the elves lined up on the walls of the ruins all blur into motion.

A squad dashes off – no doubt to inform their King – and the others close in to bar the dwarves entrance, only to yield in wide-eyed shock under their prince’s harsh command.

“Move,” he snaps, the disapproval in his voice almost bodily painful. “My father is expecting us. Return to your duties!”

The elven warriors’ rigorous training shows, then, as they react perfectly even in their confusion: As the group of seven approaches two dance away on each side to form a corridor for the dwarves and their prince, and the rows close again behind them.

Thorin turns his head ever so slightly to give Legolas a tiny glance betraying him to be impressed, and the grin offered as an answer is as much proud as it is smug.

Gimli supresses a snicker.

Legolas, having been here mere hours before (and having snuck out without the guards witnessing it, for his own amusement, no doubt), easily finds the yellow tent which is currently the site of a heated discussion between the Grey Pilgrim and the Elvenking of the woodland realm.

Thranduil, it appears, is taking his role as a general pain quite seriously.

At hearing the raised voices from within the tent Legolas and Thorin exchange another glance – one of exasperation this time – and Gimli wonders, rather worried, whether this is going to be a thing.

Then all thoughts as unimportant as those retreat to the back of his mind, as they have reached the entrance of the tent. The two warriors standing guard on either side watch them with wide eyes as the envoy from Erebor simply marches inside, frozen from acting at the sight of their prince walking with the dwarves and the hobbit.

The moment they enter Gandalf stops mid-sentence, and he and Bard turn to stare at who they were surely not expecting to see.

Thranduil, of course, does not seem to be surprised at all as he is lounging on his throne.

(Seriously? They brought a _throne_? Maybe his friend’s father is enjoying his designated role a little _too_ much…)

Right on cue Gimli breaks from the formation and moves to the side, drawing his ax as he does.

Bard’s hands are twitching towards where his bow is lying; however, the redhead does not move to attack, but to hold his weapon as ceremony dictates. (Balin would be proud of him.)

Bowing slightly, he introduces with a clear voice:

“Lord Thranduil, son of Oropher, Elvenking of the Woodland Realm. Bard the Bowman, son of Girion Lord of Dale, Slayer of the dragon Smaug. Gandalf the Grey, Mithrandir, Tharkûn, one of the five Istari.” With every name he bows before the carrier. “My Lord Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain, wishes to speak with you.”

At that, Thorin offers his own bow – and while it might not be deep enough to expose his neck, it is still a very clear message.

Bard and Gandalf stand frozen with shock.

Not so Thranduil.

With a fluid motion the elven King rises to return the bow precisely as deeply. A short moment of silence follows, as he and his son converse exchanging naught but glances, and when Legolas scowls ever so slightly his father’s shoulders drop the tiniest bit. He takes a deep breath, then, and while he looks a little pained as he says the following words his deep blue eyes certainly are sincere:

“So I shall have dealings with Erebor once more. As I was informed there is a battle to come, and I expect you are here to suggest an alliance?” He waits for Thorin to nod before continuing. “Then an alliance we shall form. Also, at the behest of my son, Prince Legolas, I declare all feuds with your people null and void.”

All present gasp for air – even Gimli.

Thranduil may have come to like _him_ , yes, but _Thorin_? That is another matter entirely.

The smile on the Elvenking’s lips is wry as he adds “We may never be friends, Thorin Oakenshield, but we shall be allies and work together as I once hoped to work with your grandfather.”

Thorin gulps visibly, before bowing again.

“A generous offer, and one I gladly accept.”

Slowly Gimli exhales, relieved. Oh, declaring all feuds between their realms null and void is indeed a generous offer, for even if Thranduil has been the one to hold them prisoner, even if _two_ leaders need to make that declaration, the dwarves of Erebor are in no position to make demands. Thorin, however, may well have been stubborn enough at the blatant emphasis of this fact to refuse.

Glancing at the other occupants of the tent – standing with his ax raised as he still is – he sees surprise in the eyes of all but Legolas, whose grin has taken on a definitely smug touch once again.

Oh, blast those elves and their plans!

Thorin takes a step forward, then, a clear sign that he wishes to be heard, and Thranduil motions for him to speak.

Gandalf still seems to be lost for words, and _that_ certainly is a rare and rather satisfying sight!

“I present to you members of my company, and ambassadors of Erebor: Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit of the Shire and the Lonely Mountain,” (and Bilbo blushes a truly impressive shade of red at hearing that) “Dwalin son of Fundin, captain of the royal guard,” (another surprise there, it seems, for Dwalin’s bow is lax with shock) “Gimli son of Glóin, representative of all free peoples of Middle-Earth, sent through time by Mahal and the Valar themselves side by side with Legolas Greenleaf,” (he is not blushing, no not at all – _representative of all free peoples of Middle-Earth_! Now that is ridiculous!) “and my sistersons: Fíli, heir to the throne of Erebor, and Kíli, official ambassador of Erebor, sons of Víli.”

Kíli, too, gasps for air after hearing the title his uncle has given him (everyone had expected that Balin would be the official ambassador; however, as the brother to the heir the position _is_ due to him) and stumbles to bow together with his brother.

That Thorin himself made those introductions, and not let Gimli make them, is rather unusual by itself.

(Bilbo’s cheeks are still distinctly red.)

The King under the Mountain takes another deep breath then, before speaking once more:

“I have been informed that two armies of orcs and goblins are to be upon us come dawn – one from Dol Guldur, and one from Gundabad. Tharkûn?”

And _that_ certainly is unusual as well, hearing the dwarves’ name for the wizard spoken in the presence of others by one other than Gimli.

Gandalf, who is still looking rather knackered (and just _what_ happened in Dol Guldur? Nothing, apparently, that the Grey Pilgrim would enjoy telling about) startles at hearing those news and his name. “Gundabad? I only know of the army coming from Dol Guldur – I saw them leave, but was unable to follow them at that time.” (Now, that sounds like a blatant euphemism!) “However, I know nothing of any coming from Gundabad-”

“But I do,” he is interrupted.

In the tent’s entrance stands Tauriel, still panting as she bows to her King.

“I rode there, as Prince Legolas bid me, and just returned with numbers.”

Gandalf’s features are grim.

“That is ill news indeed.”

_Ill news, ill guests!_

“Ill news it is,” Thorin agrees, “however, as you know I was already aware of the possibility, and I believe so was King Thranduil. Prince Legolas and Gimli Glóin’s son have spoken true. It is time, then, that we form this alliance. I…” He gulps heavily. “I am well aware that so far, I have not honoured my word. I am sure you recognized my condition from any dealings with my grandfather, King Thrór, and as such I hope you may forgive the slight I made when not in my right mind. You shall receive what you were promised, and all that is necessary to rebuild Dale should it not hinder the restoration of Erebor.”

Thranduil inclines his head in acceptance, at least a little surprised (and it is only his time with Legolas that allows Gimli to see that), and Bard – still baffled – bows.

“We… we would be very thankful for your help,” he manages to answer, quite obviously a little overwhelmed by what is taking part before his very eyes. He was raised a worker and hunter, not a nobleman, and shooting a dragon seems to have worried him less than bargaining with Kings.

Some tension leaves Thorin’s shoulders and his relief is visible.

“I propose, then, that we hold this council within the mountain. I also offer you to bring your people inside. Unfortunately we cannot provide anything in way of food; however, it will prove safe against wind and weather. Also, if we are to have an enemy army on our doorstep, women and children ought not to be anywhere near.”

Once again Thranduil is the one to react most quickly and gracefully.

“We gratefully accept your offer. Shall we go to have council, then? My warriors will break camp in the meantime and escort everyone into the mountain – Tauriel, this is your responsibility. What food we have brought shall be divided between all of us.”

Thorin nods. “I believe Dori will be well able to find accommodations for everyone as we make our plans.”

With that he motions for Gimli to go first, and as Legolas quickly slips into place beside him once again the redhead marches out of the tent and back towards Erebor – a little faster than perhaps necessary.

Enough time has been spent talking!

As he leads the procession towards the gate his mind already offers up all kinds of strategies, and when he hears Gandalf _finally_ take up asking impatient and annoying questions behind him he quickly involves Legolas in a discussion about the Rivendell and Lórien warriors Marchwarden Haldir will be leading; happily leaving Thorin and Thranduil to deal with the wizard.

They are supposed to be experienced enough for that, after all.

What he did not expect, however, was for Gandalf to grill _Bilbo_ the moment he realizes the two Kings would not spill. (They seem to be getting along worryingly well, riling up the wizard. Gimli cannot help but wonder whether doomsday has come.) The hobbit goes faster and faster as he attempts to evade his friend’s questions, and eventually ends up walking next to the two time-travellers, eyes wide with a plea for help.

Gandalf is, of course, already coming up beside him.

Gimli rolls his eyes.

“Tell him,” he grumbles. “He will find out anyway. Almost as nosy as them elves, he is.”

A little relieved Bilbo falls back again, finally beginning to answer the wizard’s impatient questions, only to have his place taken by a snickering elven King.

Legolas joins in his father’s amusement, and the redhead harrumphs, shaking his head.

“Just stop laughing, will you?” he complains, only to have his friend laugh all the harder.

Really?

Thranduil, in the meantime, raises an eyebrow. “You should be relieved that I am amused instead of scandalized. After all you just insulted my people – all of them I might add.”

Gimli huffs.

“It is no insult if it is the truth. I thought we had already agreed on that, when we discussed how much more wine than me Legolas will have to drink in order for it to have an equal effect, and that a ladydwarf can grow a prettier beard than any elf?”

Thranduil snorts. “I am beginning to see why my son is so fond of such a sassy being,” he retorts, ignoring the disbelieving snickers of the dwarven princes behind him.

It must run in Legolas’ family, then – this _begging_ to be teased.

“ _Sassy_?” Gimli immediately bristles. “You may call me many things, hairless creature, but insults meant for females I will not tolerate!”

“I thought you said your ladydwarves grow pretty beards? How do I know you are not a female, then?” the elf jibes.

His son almost breaks down laughing.

The time-traveller gives him a dangerous grin. “How do I know you are a male? You are wearing a dress, after all…”

“That is no dress, but a _robe_! Like Gandalf’s!” Thranduil complains.

“Maybe Gandalf is a female, too? He has a beautiful beard, after all,” Legolas, who has recovered from his laughing fit, chips in.

“Well, wouldn’t you like to know,” the wizard remarks suddenly, coming up next to the blonde, and Legolas nearly jumps with the shock.

“I _do_ know,” he mutters sullenly, and Gimli thanks Mahal and Elbereth that they have arrived at Erebor, then, so that his friend will not have to explain how going on a quest like the one to destroy the Ring would have stolen a certain amount of privacy from all, including wizards.

Those of the company that remained behind are standing on the battlement, properly armed now, and Balin is waiting in the entrance. He may not be wearing the greatest finery, still he carries himself in a way that has all those arriving fall silent.

This _is_ a momentous event, after all.

Gimli and Legolas easily part before the restored bridge (the company, it seems, was busy during their absence), stepping to the side and making way for Thorin to go first as ceremony would demand.

…

Thorin does _not_ go first.

Instead he motions for Bilbo to enter before him; and somewhere on those battlements, Gimli is sure, Ori is scribbling away furiously.

Thorin had been honest when he had introduced Bilbo as _Hobbit of the Shire and the Lonely Mountain_ – this is a great honour indeed.

Apparently aware of that, Bilbo bows slightly before stepping onto the bridge and walking into the mountain with his head held high.

Thorin follows him, then, and it leaves it to Gimli to negotiate the further order.

Just perfect.

The disaster one might expect upon this, however, never happens.

Thranduil waits the fraction of a moment necessary to indicate for Gandalf to go next, and after the Istar has stepped forward Bard shrugs to show that he does not care. (Not exactly protocol, but then – while he may be of noble descent he has never been taught all those tiny details, so no one takes offense.) It is more than enough prompting for Thranduil to follow the wizard, and the dragon-slayer goes after him.

Gimli exchanges a deeply relieved glace with Fíli and Kíli before the princes enter, and Legolas, Gimli and Dwalin follow after them.

Phew – who would have expected that making alliances and saving Durin’s sons could hold so many obstacles?

After he has stepped into the great hall Óin and Bifur, obviously having been instructed by Thorin himself, move in to guard the entrance where they apparently ought to wait for the men and elves to arrive. A lookout (Glóin and Bofur, for now) is set up upon the battlements, and Dori is instructed to care for accommodations, washing facilities, and armour and weapons to equip the men with if necessary.

Balin then leads them into a small hall that is miraculously clean for the short time he had to prepare it, and although lacking the grandeur such an alliance would usually require there is a huge and unbelievably untouched table in the centre of the round room (probably why it was chosen in the first place), surrounded by chairs hewn from the stone of this very mountain and sized perfectly for dwarves and elves alike.

Thorin takes the seat clearly made for the leader of this council – and as it is taking place within Erebor it is well his right to sit there – and motions for Gandalf, Thranduil and Bard to sit on the other three chairs placed at exact 90° angles around the table.

All of those are the right height for men and elves.

Balin sure knows his craft.

The four ambassadors, as their seats would indicate, then are to choose who will sit with them, and Thorin motions for Balin, Bilbo, Fíli and Gimli. While Dwalin takes his place standing behind his King and Kíli behind his brother the time-traveller is conveniently seated next to Legolas.

“I shall ask Tauriel to join me when she arrives,” Thranduil announces. “I need no more.”

“My son and two of the men should sit with me, then, when they come,” Bard adds.

Gandalf simply smiles in that annoying way of his and lights his pipe. “As you have already requested Bilbo stand with you, I shall stand alone,” he explains contently. “Now, shall we start?”

Balin does not even try and get them to stick to protocol – there is by far not enough time for that. As he nods for Ori, who is seated in the official scribe’s place, to keep record of what is said he declares their council open:

“Please, begin.”

“Then I would bid you to further satiate my curiosity,” Gandalf immediately seizes the floor, “and ask King Thorin: How is it you are suddenly ready to work _with_ elves, instead of against them? And how come King Thranduil was all but obstinate when I tried to convince him of the danger heading our way, and abruptly changed his demeanour the moment you showed up?”

As always, Gandalf is going about the matter with all the tact and charm he has.

Gimli is slightly worried when the exasperated glance he shares with Legolas very much resembles the one Thorin and Thranduil exchange. Bard’s face, however, betrays that he would hear the answer to the wizard’s question, so the Elvenking sets on explaining the part concerning him:

“You knew, I believe, that Gimli Glóin’s son has come here from the future. From what has been discussed before, I assume you also gathered that my own son came with him. I was, of course, informed of what came to be the last time Legolas lived through this, and we agreed that I would try to act as closely to how I would have acted without their time-travel until they chose to change history. When they arrived with King Thorin, who had obviously overcome the dragon sickness, I knew that choice had been made.”

Once again he is lounging in his chair in a way that should be forbidden.

Thorin’s stance is grimmer and less relaxed as he gives his own answer.

“As I was informed, not only my life was lost the last time, but also those of my sistersons. I have had many years to stew in my hatred without considering what King Thranduil would have risked had he sent his people against the dragon, and I may still not be excited about working together. I do, however, realize that this attack concerns all of us, and if it saves the lives of even one – elf, dwarf or man – I am more than ready to collaborate.”

Gandalf cocks his head, apparently quite happy with that explanation.

“You really have changed, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Fíli and Kíli are like sons to me,” the King under the Mountain answers sincerely. “There are few things us dwarves would not do for those we love.”

“The same holds true for elves,” Thranduil adds smoothly. “And for men, I expect.”

Bard gives a sharp nod at that. “It does,” he agrees before taking a deep breath. “And I am relieved to have such skilled warriors as dwarves at my side if I have to face an army of orcs. Also, I am ever glad that we agreed not to fight each other. There is only one matter left, then, that needs to be resolved before we can concentrate on coming up with a strategy.”

As all look at him in question, next to Thorin Bilbo pales.

“That of your King’s jewel.”

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, I do like getting LotR-quotes in. I'm sure you already realized? ^^)


	24. Caught now in a great net and strategy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **24\. Caught now in a great net and strategy**   
>  _The Lord Of The Rings: The Return of the King – Chapter 1: Minas Tirith_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> So. First and foremost, a warning:  
> I am no good at strategic games whatsoever. Like, I _really and truly suck_ at anything that involves proper strategies. So please forgive me if what I wrote in this chapter is utter bullshit...
> 
> Also, Gimli's behavior is kind of the _definition of hypocritical_ -.-

### 24\. Caught now in a great net and strategy

At the mention of the Arkenstone, Thorin freezes.

It is, to everyone’s surprise, Balin who first leaps to his feet and _slaps_ his King as he realizes the danger of those blue eyes glazing over once more.

Thorin’s head snaps to the side with the force of it, before he shakes it angrily. A little dazed, perhaps, but still clear in mind he then stares at his dear friend incredulously.

“I am not sure whether to thank or scold you,” he admits. “Could you not have chosen a gentler approach?”

“Certainly not,” is Balin’s dry answer, and all who do not know him very closely are gaping openly.

“Hmph. Alright then, I shall take this as part of your impeccable judgement of any situation. The next time, however, I would ask of you to use a method not bound to leave a hand print on my cheek – it is most unbecoming.”

Behind him Dwalin huffs.

“If anything, it makes you look better.”

For that he receives an elbow to the stomach (and wasn’t that a clever movement, around the backrest of the chair) and he grunts with the surprise (and quite possibly pain), the satisfied gleam in Thorin’s eyes visible to all but him.

The King under the Mountain then sighs, before turning to look at Bard once again.

“What of it?”

“It was… given to us, this night before dawn, as a bargaining chip in an attempt to prevent a battle between us and your company,” the bowman answers slowly, carefully.

“And by whom, I would know?”

Bilbo appears to be trying to sink into his chair, before suddenly sitting up straight. “By me,” he admits, and while his voice may be wavering a little it is still clear.

Such is the courage of hobbits, Gimli thinks, once again amazed.

Thorin stares at his burglar – and a burglar he is, now – in shock, hurt shining in his eyes. He keeps silent for a few long moments, Bilbo barely managing not to squirm, before simply asking:

“Why?”

And this single word is all but begging the hobbit to offer a justified explanation.

Oh, those two!

Bilbo gulps heavily, before once again proving himself to be far more courageous than most would ever have thought.

“I found it when I woke Smaug,” he slowly admits. “The dragon… warned me that it would drive you mad, l-like your g-grandfather. I… I wished not to believe it, b-but… I could not help but doubt.” He looks honestly pained at that, and an equal amount of honest shame matches Thorin’s features. “You came in to save me, then, and for a short time all of us were simply glad to be alive. Soon, however, you began sending us to l-look for it, a-and… you had changed already, if only a little, and I could not forget what the dragon had said! I promised myself to watch you for a little longer, to see if you would return to behave the way I knew you, and the longer I watched the worse it got… the longer I watched, the more convinced I was that I should n-not give it to you.” He gulps once again, then, and quickly continues before any of the others can stop him. “Then suddenly you were talking of going to war against the elves and men! I knew that you were in danger, in _mortal_ danger, for Gimli had dropped a hint, and _all_ of the company would have been in danger too, so… I snuck outside and offered them the Arkenstone in exchange for my share. I had to stop them from attacking, I had to try and save you!”

He stares at Thorin, then, with desperate eyes pleading the King to understand.

The dwarf says nothing for a long time, face kept carefully blank, before slowly frowning.

“While you took my Right to Rule, and kept it when I asked you to bring it to me… I do not see any ill will in your actions. It speaks for your judgement that you knew not to give it to me when I was sick; and your will to sacrifice your own share, and maybe even our good-will had I still been mad, in order to prevent war, impresses me. Also, I cannot disregard that it was _my_ life you were attempting to save with your actions…”

He stops for a moment, and Bilbo almost quakes with fear.

“I have to thank you once more, it seems.”

Then strong arms wrap themselves around the hobbit’s slight form once again, and as those of the company who are present cheer Gimli exchanges an affectionate glance with Legolas.

Maybe there is still hope for these two to get their acts together, after all.

“As we have no longer need of any bargaining chips,” Bard speaks up once again after Thorin has released Bilbo from his arms and the commotion died down, “I shall return it to you.”

With that he pulls a small bundle from his coat and, reverently, places it on the stone table before the King under the Mountain.

Slowly, Thorin reaches for it, folds back the inconspicuous cloth.

The Arkenstone shines as it is revealed, lighting up the chamber, and the dwarf lifts it ever so hesitantly. Its light is reflected in his bright blue eyes, and he seems to tear his gaze away from the jewel by force as he whips his head around to stare at the hobbit instead.

“Bilbo,” he begins, hoarsely, and interrupts himself in order to clear his throat. “Bilbo Baggins, I would have you accept this present, my Arkenstone, as recognition of your courage and devotion. Without you, I would never have made it here.”

All dwarves present rear back at that, staring in wide-eyed shock, and whowwhow _whow_ , was that an _offer of courtship_??

Ori’s quill is flying across the parchment.

Quite obviously no less shocked, but most likely for a very different reason, Bilbo seems to be lost for words.

“I…” He gulps. “This is… it really is not _necessary_ , Thorin.”

Gimli almost whimpers, for that was a rejection if there ever was one, and _is Thorin aware that Bilbo most likely has no idea of their courtship customs??_

To his complete and utter relief Thorin simply smiles ever so softly at the hobbit, quite obviously aware of, no, _counting on_ the fact that Bilbo is hopelessly oblivious.

Oh, the _coward_!

“It really is, Bilbo,” the King under the Mountain explains gently, quite possibly very well aware of what every member of his company must be thinking. “You deserve to have it. It is my Right to Rule, yes, but Dáin has already answered my summons… and now that I am finally sitting upon my throne none will question whether I have the right to do so. Also… it is _dangerous_ for me to have it. Smaug said it might drive me mad, and while I have shaken off his charm for now I might very well fall under it again. I would have you hold it, no matter how little precious stones mean to you, and remember how grateful I am every time you look at it.”

Bilbo’s eyes are damp as he smiles and finally reaches to take the Arkenstone from Thorin’s still outstretched hand.

“It shall mean more to me, then, than any precious stone ever did. Thank you, Thorin.”

For the briefest of moments the dwarf’s fingers curl around the hobbit’s as Bilbo’s close around the King’s Jewel, before drawing back, and Gimli can clearly see Balin, Dwalin, Ori and the princes suppress the same groan of frustration and disappointment he is fighting not to let break free.

For a long moment Thorin stares at Bilbo with an almost ridiculous amount of affection and longing in his rarely-so-unguarded eyes, then he visibly shakes off the current mood.

“I believe it is time we finally make those plans,” he says aloud, and even if all of the present leaders and most others look at him knowingly neither chooses to comment on it.

“Dusk is soon to come. We do not have much time left, and our warriors should go into the battle well rested,” Thranduil remarks even as Ori is sent to ask for Tauriel, Bain, and two more of the men to join them, for surely they have arrived by now. “The last time, I was told, we fought together, but were not well coordinated. Lord Dáin’s dwarves formed a wall with their shields, a measure of defence I apparently chose to ignore as I had my people jump over it and attack in close combat instead of taking advantage of the time until the battle would reach us and rallying my archers.”

“Forming a wall is indeed a tactic Dáin often uses, as it is quite affective,” Thorin agrees. “You are also right that you should have taken the defence it would have offered. We shall have to go about it differently this time.”

That is the precise moment Ori returns, the requested men (one of them being the elderly Einarr) and Tauriel in tow, and Gimli offers Bain a reassuring smile as they take their seats and the dwarf returns to the scribe’s chair.

“Many things should have been done differently,” Legolas interjects. “As I was there myself, perhaps I should sum up what happened?”

With a single gesture and a nod, Thorin prompts him to continue.

“Very well. We were still in discussion with you when Dáin arrived. Both of our armies were prepared to fight each other; however, then a few of the great Were-worms broke through the ground of the hills in the East, under which the army from Dol Guldur had waited. The dwarves moved to defend the mountain, then, and – as my father already explained – after some prompting from Mithrandir our elves joined them. As we battled the orcs on the slope of the mountain a second troop was sent to Dale, where the injured, women and children still camped. As Lord Bard took his men to defend them King Thorin finally shook off the gold-madness and he and his Company joined the battle before his gates. The orcs were too many, however, and well organised, so he took the princes and Master Dwalin up on Ravenhill, from where Azog was directing them. As the battle raged on before the mountain and in Dale Prince Fíli was captured and killed by the enemy leader. Prince Kíli presumably tried to revenge him, then – all I know is that he encountered Bolg and fell as he attempted to save Tauriel from him.”

The dark-haired dwarf and the captain of Thranduil’s guard exchange a somewhat fond glance at that and Fíli tenses visibly.

Oh, for the love of Mahal!

“At that time the second enemy army from Gundabad was already coming in from the North, and I had held onto a bat which flew up Ravenhill. Bilbo, too, had followed his dwarves there – he was, however, soon knocked out by whatever enemy. As King Thorin battled Azog I fought Bolg, and in the end both of them fell. The Pale Orc had wounded the King gravely, though, and Bilbo barely managed to exchange a few last words with him when he died. That was also when the eagles arrived, and the skinchanger Beorn.”

After Legolas has finished silence falls.

Bilbo is staring at Thorin with shock written across his features (and is it not understandable, seeing as he just heard of exchanging last dying words with the one he loves?) much as Thorin himself is staring at his nephews.

It is Dwalin, however, who speaks up first.

“And I?” he asks angrily, white-knuckled fists clenched, “where was I? You said I went with them, where was I when Fíli fell, when Kíli died? When Azog wounded Thorin thusly??”

“When you reached the top of Ravenhill the Pale Orc was nowhere to be seen. The princes were sent scouting, as they would have moved more quietly than you, and must have separated at some point. After he had witnessed Prince Fíli’s death King Thorin tried to find Prince Kíli, and you lost sight of him. That you stayed with Bilbo quite possibly saved his life, as that was when the army from Gundabad arrived. You must have battled them something fiercely, from what an aged Bilbo told me when we met in Rivendell. He was knocked unconscious, then, and knew not of what happened after.”

“I am quite certain that you did _not_ abandon either of us,” Thorin says quietly, grasping Dwalin’s tense arm. “I _know_ you did not. Surely you did the best you could – also, I can easily imagine myself running after Kíli without waiting for you. I am sure you agree with me on that.”

He offers a crooked smile, and after a few moments the warrior hesitantly returns it.

“From what I know of you, Master Dwalin – and Gimli has told me many a tale – you are a very honourable dwarf, and would have done everything in your power to help your King – your _friend_ ,” Legolas remarks. “As it is, though, we will make sure that this does not happen again. This opportunity to save so many was given to us, and we shall seize it!”

“Aye!” Gimli agrees. “Let us make better plans this time, and show that filth just what an army of elves, men and dwarves is capable of!”

“Aye,” Fíli and Kíli echo, and Dwalin offers a grim nod.

“That we shall do! I presume, then, that you already have some ideas?”

“You bet!” the redhead immediately retorts. “Now, let us get to it, shall we?”

Once again it is Thorin who gestures for him to speak.

“Alright. As Legolas told you what went wrong the last time, we all know what we should _not_ do. And while we may be severely outnumbered, we have quite a few serious advantages. First, we are defending a fortress with only one entrance – one that was built to be defended no less.” Much like the Hornburg, and had that orc not managed to blow up part of the wall… much might have been different that night when they had fought for the survival of Rohan. “If we stay close to the gate and do not spread the battle too far, we cannot be surrounded, as we will have the Mountain in our back at all times. Also, it is essential that we keep the gate defended – as long as we hold the entrance the women and children are safe, so that is our first priority.”

Many of those present nod in agreement, and Bard’s hand on his son’s shoulder his white-knuckled with the strength of his grip.

“Moreover, we have battlements and perches perfect for archers,” Legolas continues seamlessly. “It is essential that this time, we take advantage of the fact that we have long-distance fighters while the enemy does not.”

“The last time we were attacked on the slopes, in Dale, and later from the North, after we had split up,” Gimli takes over again. “This time we make _them_ stay together, so that we may have more control over what is happening. Also, as you might have heard, the Lady Galadriel has informed us that a troop of Lórien and Rivendell warriors will arrive from South. That may give _us_ the chance to attack on two fronts. However, we cannot concentrate only on the enemy’s soldiers. A major problem was that they were being directed and organized by Azog using flags, which gave them a severe tactical advantage. Thus, once again, it will be necessary to cut the head off the snake. That cannot be done, though, before we have control of the battlefield.”

Gimli pauses then, and takes a deep breath, before addressing Thorin directly:

“Do you claim the Pale Orc as yours to kill?”

The King under the Mountain nods, his eyes dark. “Although I will not fight against him alone I demand that I at least be part of the squad sent to kill him.”

“Very well,” the redhead agrees, inclining his head.

The relief of all dwarves (and one hobbit) present is almost palpable – he will _not_ try to take on Azog alone. In truth, that is more than Gimli dared hope for.

“Now, as we already explained, this battle was later called the _Battle of the Five Armies_ , and with good reason,” Legolas smoothly continues. “As promised, Dáin Ironfoot will arrive with an army of dwarves, and Marchwarden Haldir of Lórien is coming to aid us on behalf of Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel. Also, help was promised to us by the skinchanger Beorn, and Radagast the Brown shall arrive with the Eagles of Manwë.”

A low rumble goes through the room.

“While the Eagles and Beorn will not arrive before the battle is already raging, Lord Dáin and Marchwarden Haldir should reach the Mountain just before the enemy army of Dol Guldur breaks through,” Gimli continues. “As I already explained, we thought about attacking from the South with one or both of our allies still to arrive. Easily we could send one of the ravens to inform them of our plans – either we ask them to hurry and fight with us before the gate, or we instruct them to meet some of us at an agreed on venue and then attack from two fronts.”

Silence falls, then, as all those present think both options through. Many here have more than enough battle experience, and that shows as every single warrior makes a decision based on their experience.

“I propose we choose the latter option,” Thranduil is the first to speak up, “and seize this opportunity. If we here keep tight ranks we should easily be able to hold the mountain, and attacking from a second front would give us a major strategic advantage. The enemy will not be prepared for this, and it should be easier to gain control of the battle and allow a squad to make for Ravenhill and the Pale Orc. Also, a troop which may move quickly might prove necessary in reacting to the arrival of the second enemy army.”

“I agree,” Thorin immediately adds, and Dwalin grunts in affirmation as Balin nods.

“I… have no experience with battles as such,” Bard slowly offers, “however, this sounds good to me.”

“I, too, am in favour of this plan,” Gandalf puffs, still happily smoking his pipe. “I would think, though, that the real question is: What would _you_ do?” His eyes are as piercing as they ever were, then, finding those of Legolas and Gimli.

The two time-travellers, addressed so directly and surprisingly, sit frozen for a moment before the elf raises an eyebrow.

“I believe from the way we presented this suggestion it was quite clear that we think it to be the best choice of action,” he remarks dryly.

“Quite right,” Gandalf agrees, nodding. “I simply wanted for it to be affirmed, as I am quite sure you, Legolas Thranduilion, have the best experience with this specific battle.”

Dwalin gives a snort of laughter at that, and even Thorin cannot suppress a snicker.

“He is certainly right about that. It is agreed, then – we organize for a second army to attack with?”

Everyone sitting at the table, even Bilbo, nods at that and the King under the Mountain hums, satisfied, before grinning a little crookedly as he brings up another possible problem:

“Oh dear… We are talking about elves of Lórien, who I have heard not to be too thrilled with meeting any of my people, and Dáin’s dwarves, who have never been particularly fond of elves – oh, and of _Dáin himself_ , of course, who is always quick to attack before thinking it through. If we instruct them not to kill each other they may listen – if we are lucky – but I highly doubt that they would agree to work together.”

Once again, silence falls.

“That is, indeed, a very possible problem,” Gandalf idly comments, letting a smoke-horse canter across the table top.

(Gimli barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. The wizard always claims to be tactful and charming – in truth the dwarf is not sure whether his friend even knows what those words really mean.)

The two time-travellers exchange a glance.

This is a problem they thought of before, and also found a solution for.

Gimli highly doubts that any of the others will like it, though.

Before he even has the chance to suggest it, however, Thranduil frowns darkly at them.

“ _No!_ ”

“What-”

“The two of you are _not_ going to that venue alone!”

 

_TBC_


	25. The exact situation at the moment may require a little brief explanation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **25\. The exact situation at the moment may require a little brief explanation**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> There's a few filler-ish chaps coming up... things that kind of need to be said and done, but aren't overly exciting.
> 
> Hope you enjoy none the less!

### 25\. The exact situation at the moment may require a little brief explanation

_“The two of you are_ not _going to that venue you mentioned alone!”_

 

The others stare in shock at the two friends as they understand what solution exactly the pair has come up with.

“And why not, pray tell?” Legolas asks calmly.

Once more the council sits in silence, before what seems like all of them begin yelling at the same time, attempting to provide arguments against that idea.

“-No way!-”

“-That is too dangerous!-”

“-What if the orcs find you before our allies arrive?-”

The chaos is impressive, until Thranduil and Thorin jump to their feet just at the same time (Doomsday! Surely it has to be, there is no other explanation!) and the commotion dies down.

“We ought to hear them out, even if we do not like this solution,” the King under the Mountain grinds out, and Gimli inclines his head in thanks.

“As you can probably tell, we already discussed that option,” he says. “As I am a dwarf and Legolas an elf, we are the best chosen pair to reason with both the leaders of the elves and dwarves. Also, we are used to fighting together, and perfectly capable of holding our own in the chaos of battle. We have lived through much darker nights before, when victory had not even seemed possible, and come out if not unscathed then all the stronger for it.”

Before their very eyes, the Elvenking’s objection seems to wilt away and his shoulders slump in defeat.

“You are right,” he admits reluctantly, and more quietly than any of them ever heard him speak. “It _is_ a good plan. I expect you are more than capable in battle, and perhaps more experienced than most of us – it is not as if I would know.” Legolas almost jumps to his feet at hearing the sadness in his father’s voice. He is, however, stopped by the older one’s crooked smile. “You are few enough to hide should any orcs come your way, and many enough to convince both Marchwarden Haldir and Lord Dáin, and defend yourselves. Also, Legolas _will_ be able to reason with Haldir.”

At that Thorin, too, sighs in defeat.

“And Gimli with Dáin, if he takes along a royal command,” he adds, no less hesitantly than Thranduil before. His deep eyes find the redhead’s, prompting him to be careful.

_You are family as much as Balin or Óin_ , they seem to be saying, and Gimli gulps heavily.

“We send out a raven, then” Legolas breaks the spell of the moment, “with instructions for the both of them. The two of us shall await them at the venue we appoint, and upon a signal from you we will attack.”

Thranduil and Gandalf nod in agreement.

Thorin, however, is watching the two time-travellers thoughtfully.

“I would have you at my side when I go to Ravenhill, to kill Azog,” he finally says. “I am confident in taking the same as the last time… However, Prince Legolas claims to have battled Bolg before, his experience might be dearly needed. Also, I know Gimli to be an excellent warrior, and I would have one more with me to protect my sistersons.”

As the princes open their mouths to protest, claim they do not need protection, the looks to silence them come from both Thorin and Gimli.

Their mouths snap closed, and Legolas cocks his head.

“We could fight our way through. Certainly, it would take quite some time – long enough, for sure, for you to gain control of the battle. You could ready mounts for all of us, and soon as we arrive we move in to kill the enemy leader.”

“And if we take too long you take my father and Tauriel instead,” Gimli adds. “Glóin’s and my fighting styles are much alike, and Tauriel, like Legolas, is quick and nimble.”

“Are you sure you can do that?” Bard asks, one eyebrow raised. “Fight your way through? Please do not get me wrong, I mean no offense – I am simply concerned.”

“No offense taken,” Legolas reassures him. “And I am positive we will manage. As my father said before: Two is a small number of warriors, it should give us the opportunity to take advantage of any holes in the enemy’s formation as they present themselves.”

Once again, there is a general sigh of defeat as the council gives in.

“Perhaps the two of you should fight this battle alone?” Bilbo jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood. “You might still manage to lead us to victory.”

“Of course we would,” Legolas immediately retorts. “Gimli would have to do no more than drop his pants, and all would run upon the sight of his hairy arse.” (*)

“Better hairy than bald,” the dwarf answers quickly as an arrow, and Dwalin grunts in offence, “that goes for most body parts. You could but blind the enemy, with the sun reflecting off your bare cheeks.”

“And what would you know of the bareness of my cheeks?”

“No more than you of the hairiness of my arse, I would wager,” Gimli easily retaliates. “Unless, of course, you watched me when you should not have?”

“And how would I have seen you? With you crouching your head would have been even closer to the ground, I might as well have stepped on you had I ventured close.”

“Maybe we should discuss this at another time?” Gimli prompts idly, and his friend agrees upon seeing the mixture of amusement and dread of where the conversation might be leading in everyone’s faces. They have, after all, achieved their goal: The mood is a little lighter than before.

“What mounts were you talking of when you described going up Ravenhill?” Balin intervenes in an attempt to guide the conversation back to the upcoming battle.

“Last time you rode mountain goats – I have to admit, though, that I do have no idea where you found them,” Legolas explains.

“That should not be a problem,” Thorin reassures him. “My people always used to breed them for the sole purpose of reaching terrains we alone would have a hard time scaling. It seems some of them kept around… if I found them the last time, I should manage to do so again. In fact, I will send Nori and Bofur to look for them after this council is over.”

“We will find a way,” Gimli agrees. “The single most important thing, however, is that those up on Ravenhill do not split up – under no circumstances!”

“I shall make sure of that,” Dwalin growls, and that Thorin does not comment on that it is as much as a permission for the bald warrior to drag either of the royal family back to the rest of the squad by force should need be.

Gimli nods, satisfied.

Finally, this – the council, that strategy, their _time-travel_ – is getting somewhere!

“What else do we need to plan?” Legolas asks. “I am well experienced in fighting, but not in making grand strategies and leading armies, that would have been Estel’s call – my field of expertise is more improvisation. Thus it is time, I believe, for Gimli and me to return the word to King Thorin and my father.”

Thranduil inclines his head in thanks.

“My turn, then,” he remarks dryly, before bringing up a sheer enormous number of issues none of them but perhaps Balin would have thought of, judging by the sheepish smiles offered at every new possible problem they would have forgot addressing.

The Elvenking leads the discussion with iron reigns, no matter Thorin’s position as head of the council, and it is just as well for Thranduil sets a pace that quite probably saves them from talking all night. With every hour that passes more and more details of their plan take shape, and Ori barely gets a chance to rest his quill. Balin sets up the letters to Dáin and Haldir, and Legolas is the one to draw a map of the presumed battlefield, marking possibly moves using differently coloured ink. Gandalf’s experience in anything and everything imaginable proves to be most valuable, Thorin skilfully comes up with strategies for pairs of light elven and heavy dwarven fighters, and Óin, who has been brought in, explains the best escape routes for the women and children deeper into the mountain should need be.

It is well past midnight when Thranduil finally claims their strategy to be adequate enough, and they rise with stiff limbs and whirling thoughts.

There is still much to be done, however, before they will have the chance to sleep.

Thorin marches off to find Nori and Bofur, in order to ask them about the goats, and Balin is left to search for a raven and send those letters to Haldir and Dáin. Bard and Thranduil make for where their soldiers are camped, conveying what information they need to know, and Gandalf vanishes towards the mines-

Gimli decides he does _not_ want to know what the wizard is up to.

Legolas, in the meantime, does not seem to care for his friend’s concern – instead he grabs the dwarf’s arm, dragging him along.

“Come, we still need to return those weapons!”

Thankful to be moving again (that was one sitting hour too much) Gimli follows the elf without protesting, content to let the older one lead the way. While Legolas may not have lived in Erebor for as many years as his dwarven friend he did come here to visit – before that whole time-travel business happened – and as the elves and men are all camped out in the main entrance hall and the adjacent chambers he easily finds the one he is looking for.

A Mirkwood elf with long, dark hair and soft features perks up as she sees them approach, and abandons the arrow she was apparently fletching as she jumps to her feet.

“Prince Legolas!” she calls, and from her voice Gimli guesses that she is quite young – for an elf. “I have brought the weapons, like you requested.” She points at a trunk pushed up against a wall, and Legolas gives her a soft smile.

“I know.” He turns to look at Gimli, then. “Help me carry it?”

“I can help you!” the young elf immediately offers, her voice eager and excited (and Gimli wonders whether this might be a time to be jealous. She is certainly looking at his friend with wild admiration written plainly across her fair features…), but her prince smiles at her once again as he shakes his head.

“You should save your strength for the battle. As you are with Maethon’s squad you will be placed on the battlements above the gate – closer to the enemy than most other archers. Promise me to take care?”

“I will,” she vows solemnly, and Gimli feels her eyes on them as they lift the trunk and carry it away, until they have left the room.

“You seem to like her,” the dwarf remarks as they make for where he knows the company to have gathered, careful to keep any jealousy or sadness from his voice.

“I do,” Legolas admits immediately. “Caleth – I met her after you left my father’s halls, down the river. She… many guards died that day when Bolg attacked you, and when we told their families- … it certainly was a blow, learning she was _alone_. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and her father had faded after losing his beloved. Her brother had been the one to raise her, and he had been one of the guards who fell in the attack. When we told her she was heartbroken and thirsting for revenge in equal measure. She would have been too young to come along, but she has extraordinary skill with a bow, and so desperately wishes to avenge her brother. I pleaded with my father to allow her to come, and when Maethon agreed to accept her into his squad father finally gave in.”

Caleth.

A pretty name, for a pretty elven maid, Gimli has to admit. Also great skill with the bow… and obviously inspiring a protective instinct in Legolas. Well, he could not fault his friend for liking her – they would make a perfect couple.

It is his luck, he supposes, that they reach the room his company has claimed as theirs then, and he is not expected to say anything on the matter.

A great clamour arises when they step into the chamber, and Glóin barely gives his son the chance to put down the heavy chest before drawing him into a head-butt that has Legolas wince with the sheer force of it.

“So? Did you whip up a plan?”

“Did Thorin not inform you?” Gimli asks, eyebrows raised, and his uncle huffs.

“He came here long enough to grab Nori and Bofur, before running off again with Dwalin – Mahal knows where. Balin has not even dropped by yet, and the boys are not being of any help either,” Óin grumbles, and nods towards one of the corners where Fíli and Kíli are sitting, heads together and whispering furiously. Whatever topic they are discussing, judging by their expressions it does not appear to be a pleasant one.

Which is no surprise, really, after everything they had to learn in the last hours. Hearing about their own deaths… has to be hard, and there was no time to think on anything ever since Thorin caught Legolas within his mountain.

He sighs softly, and the look in his father’s eyes makes him fear that his expression is entirely too fond. “I am sure Thorin will give you all necessary information soon enough. I only came here to deliver these…”

It is only then that the dwarves even realize the presence of the trunk Legolas is only just opening.

“My ax!” Glóin calls and dives for it, followed by Bombur and Dori.

Carefully the latter returns the weapons to their owners, the princes and Óin watching contently. They did, after all, receive theirs in Laketown when they fled from the dragon’s wrath.

“Who is guarding the Gate?” Gimli asks upon seeing his uncle and Bifur here, remembering that before the council began Thorin had instructed them to stand guard.

“Those of the men who still have good eyes but are not able to fight have set up a rotation for the rest of the night, so that the warriors may sleep,” Bombur explains.

“Sleep,” Glóin echoes longingly. “I wish I could!”

Gimli raises an eyebrow. “You cannot?”

His father graces him with a withering glare.

“Just _listen_ , and tell me how _you_ would be able to sleep with all that wailing going on!”

The time-traveller cocks his head at that, Legolas doing much the same, and it is only now that he concentrates on it that he can hear the soft sounds of small children crying.

Well.

It would not keep _him_ awake, he supposes, considering the chaos and noise he has already slept through, but it is easy to imagine that his father (who once had to calm a wailing babe multiple times every night, for had he woken his wife she might have hit him with the rolling-pin always kept conveniently close) may have trouble falling asleep.

“Do you know why they are crying?” he asks quietly, and Glóin’s rough features soften.

“They are afraid, I would wager,” he rumbles. “Those who came here barely survived the dragon’s attack, and marching up from Laketown with what little belongings they had left, exhausted and heartbroken as they were, must have been traumatizing. Now they are hiding in a cold mountain, those of their mothers who still live probably fearing for their own lives, and even more so for their husbands’ who will fight tomorrow – no wonder they are terrified.”

“You are right,” Gimli murmurs lowly, ashamed that he had not thought of it. “I will go up there, then, and try to calm them… as well as I am able to, at least.”

“I shall come with you,” Legolas immediately offers. “We will need to occupy ourselves anyway – not enough time to properly sleep, for the two of us.”

The redhead realizes his friend’s mistake the moment he has made it, for his father squints.

Thorin has not relayed any information yet, so the older one cannot know-

Oh bother.

He really does _not_ want to explain his and Legolas’ suicide mission to the man who has sired and raised him, thank you very much.

“And why, Mahal tell, should there be less time to sleep for the two of you?” he asks, dangerously calmly.

What his dark eyes, so similar to Gimli’s own, are saying the time-traveller understands only too well:

_What foolish thing have you gone off and done this time??_

“Perhaps… we should wait for Thorin to return and explain?” Legolas suggests weakly upon having perceived his mistake, but Gimli shakes his head, determination squaring his shoulders.

“No. It was _our_ idea – I ought to tell him myself.”

Now Glóin’s grim features fill with fear instead.

“Tell me what?” he asks weakly. “What have you done?”

Gimli gulps heavily.

“Nothing… yet.” He takes a deep breath, looks his father straight in the eye. “We decided that all of our forces would remain close to the mountain, while Haldir and Dáin’s armies should attack from behind… together. Someone… someone needs to go there and-”

“-convince them to fight together, instead of each other,” Glóin finishes quietly. “So you are going out there alone, to meet them at some venue they – I presume – are being told by raven?”

“If that were it, he would not be so reluctant to tell you,” Balin’s dry voice barges in from behind the two time-travellers, and the elderly advisor moves around them to peer into the trunk still waiting at Legolas’ feet. “My sword!” he exclaims, reaching for the trusted weapon. “Wherever did you find it?”

Raising an eyebrow Gimli nods in the direction of his pointy-eared friend, and Balin hems sheepishly.

“Of course, of course. You already announced that you would return them,” he remembers, clearly embarrassed. “My thanks!”

Fortunately, he is saved by his cousin’s impatience.

“Come tell me, Balin – what are they planning on doing?” Glóin demands to know, obviously having come to the conclusion that the elderly advisor will offer the information more willingly than his own son.

Gimli is not about to complain.

“Oh, as soon as they have attacked with the elves and dwarves coming to our aid they are planning on fighting their way through the enemy army, in order to ride up Ravenhill with Thorin where they will attempt to kill the Pale Orc,” Balin explains as if he were recounting what Panicle Took’s youngest has gotten up to now, over a nice cup of tea.

(Bilbo, surely, would have enjoyed the stories Pippin had always had to tell about his father’s oldest sister and her wild, unruly daughter who had grown up with four ridiculously mannerly brothers.)

“You are planning to do _what_?” Glóin yells, shock and fear twisting his features into a mask of horror. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Why?” Óin, who is standing next to his brother, asks quietly.

“For two reasons,” Legolas answers softly. “For one, we are perhaps the only pair who would accomplish the task of convincing both Lord Dáin and Marchwarden Haldir to work together but are not needed before the Gates. While I believe King Thorin and my father might accomplish it too, they will have to be here, to command our forces. And second, your King has required our presence upon his attempt to take out the enemy leader.”

“We can do this, ‘adad,” Gimli adds, giving his father a tiny smile. “We have been in worse battles… none of which we have fought without each other. There are no two warriors more attuned to each other than us-”

“-about that,” Balin suddenly interrupts them, uncharacteristically impolitely. “You still owe us an explanation or two, _Gimli Glóin’s son_!”

The time-traveller’s eyes widen, and he exchanges a nervous glance with his dear friend.

“Perhaps… the night before a battle is not the best time to discuss such things?” he offers weakly, and his uncle snorts unceremonially.

“I think the night before a battle is an _excellent_ time to discuss such things!”

“Not too long ago you were whining about not being able to sleep!”

“Well, now we are no longer,” Óin huffs. “Besides, my ability to sleep is hardly compromised by some noise!”

Gimli stares at him, thinking about what else he might say, before suddenly deflating. Those who are asking for his story… they are his family, who want to know what happened. They wish to find out how the barely adult dwarf they had left behind in the Ered Luin might have become him – a warrior in his own right, the friend of an elf, a _time-traveller_. All here are his family, some by blood, some not – if they do not deserve to hear this tale, and ask their questions, then who does?

Sighing, he inclines his head in defeat.

“I… alright. You deserve to know. However… the others will want to hear this too, and I promised that I would try and calm the children. Thordis had me vow that I would come and find her…” (he ignores Legolas’ soft laughter) “… so I shall go and fulfil my promise, and when I return, you may ask your questions. Is that acceptable?”

“Perfectly,” Balin agrees, obviously having realized how they must have ambushed him. “I will personally make sure that our King and everyone else is present then, so that you will not have to tell this story twice.”

“May…” Legolas clears his throat. “May my father, and Tauriel, also attend?”

Glóin squints, and Óin looks ready to say no, when – to everyone’s surprise – Fíli interferes. (Although, Gimli realizes, he does not seem to be particularly excited about _Tauriel’s_ announced presence.)

“Of course,” the blond prince agrees from where he is still sitting with Kíli. “Your father, at least, deserves to hear this as well, and what is one more elf in a meeting of dwarves and a hobbit?”

Gimli offers his friend a rather wide, thankful smile, before grabbing Legolas’ sleeve and almost pulling him out of the room.

It is time to run… the inquisition will be upon them soon enough.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) After having read the wonderful scarletjedi’s **Comes Around Again** I couldn’t help but add a thing or two about Gimli’s hairy arse :p
> 
> If you haven’t read this incredible fic you _so_ should!!


	26. Important for larger history

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **26\. Important for larger history**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 5: Note on the shire records_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> I'm really sorry for being late!  
> We went to climb a mountain yesterday, and I thought there's be enough time afterwards, but then my boyfriend dragged me off to a party and when we returned I was dead on my feet.  
> Sorry!! :/

### 26\. Important for larger history

Leading the way to the entrance hall, and the adjourning rooms where the women and children of Laketown are staying, Gimli revels in the simple pleasure of having Legolas at his side, and finally knowing that he will be able to right what wrongs there had been the last time.

The elf is walking next to him, treading soundlessly, and it is a long-fingered hand on his shoulder that stops the dwarf dead in his tracks.

“Shh,” Legolas whispers, eyes twinkling excitedly when Gimli looks at him to see if there is any danger about.

The blonde leads them into a side corridor, and presses his ear against a crack in the all but crumbled wall before him.

Puzzled, the redhead follows his example; and barely succeeds in stifling his gasp when he hears the quiet and muffled but well-known voice.

“- … very grateful. I am well aware that you are under no obligation to help us in this, no matter your son and Gimli’s friendship. I… would you permit a question?”

“Please ask,” Thranduil accepts Thorin’s request, and Gimli cannot help but imagine him inclining his head regally.

Thorin, quite possibly, may answer with a tilt of his own.

Next to Gimli Legolas snorts softly, as if he knows exactly what the dwarf is thinking – and maybe he does.

“Why?” Thorin asks simply, and Thranduil seems to understand despite the rather unelaborate question, for he answers immediately, voice calm and so very sincere:

“I… did never like you, you are right about that. That is, of course, not only due to the almost ancient hatred between our races. You may not remember the way our relationship strained and, in the end, failed when your grandfather finally succumbed to the gold-fever, as you were still quite young at the time. While neither Thrór nor I were ever overly excited about each other, we always strove to discuss matters civilly, and avoid direct insults. Either of us was prudent enough to put peace above war, no matter our races. We had… an agreement, you might say, for the well-being of our subjects.”

The Elvenking takes the time to sigh; and Thorin asks, deep voice low:

“What happened?”

“Thrór went mad,” is the simple answer. “He became greedier and greedier, no longer listening to reason, or putting those he ruled over first. I attempted to warn him; when I had thought his sickness had only just begun, but apparently he was already too far gone at that time. He rejected my advice as a matter of principle, and told me in no uncertain terms that he was mistrustful of my integrity, due to my race. He threw some rather… scathing insults at me; and when I left he told me never to return. I was… well, _insulted_ even though I did suspect that he suffered of gold-sickness; for I had put centuries of distrust and hatred aside for the dwarves of Erebor, and that was how I was rewarded.”

Silence reigns for a long while, and Gimli begins to get worried, when Thorin finally speaks up again.

“For what it is worth – I am sorry.”

“Actually, your regret is worth much,” Thranduil answers uncharacteristically softly; and Legolas’ eyes widen in surprise and joy. “I… held a grudge as unbecoming of a King as your grandfather’s greed. As I accepted your apology, would you accept mine? I ought to have helped you – if not in battle, then in all else. My disappointment and anger towards one old dwarf should not have let me abandon your young, your _children_.”

“I… thank you, for those words. I needed to hear them, I suppose,” Thorin admits, voice as deep and regal as ever, and Gimli’s shoulders drop with relief.

“Thank _you_ , for seeking me out,” Thranduil answers smoothly. “This conversation was long overdue.”

“It was,” the King under the Mountain replies with a tiny chuckle. “Although, to be honest – I certainly never expected for it to happen, not in ten centuries.”

“Neither did I,” the Elvenking agrees, his voice equally amused. “When Legolas told me that he had accepted a dwarf as his friend, and that I would have to live with it – I certainly was less than excited. I wanted to forbid it, attempted to changes his mind… slowly; however, I began to see how much the _naug_ really meant to him. His mind was set, and in the end… I decided that my son’s happiness was more important to me than holding onto an old grudge. It was that which made me open enough to accept even Thrór’s grandson as an ally, for I knew that Legolas would fight with you no matter what, and I was _not_ angry enough to have him risk his life thusly without aiding him if it was in my power to do so.”

Thorin hums lowly.

“I certainly understand that,” he agrees, “For it was for my sistersons’ sake that I managed to leave my hatred for you and my greed for the gold behind.”

Thranduil’s chuckle is almost soft. “Who would have fought that we might be so similar?”

“And yet we are,” Thorin muses. “We may be Kings, we may be of different races and realms – but first and foremost we are people who love those we call family and wish to protect them against all dangers. Speaking of that – why did you give in when they suggested their mad plan?”

Apparently the Elvenking does not need to ask which _they_ the dwarf is talking of, and Gimli distantly wonders whether he should be worried, as Thranduil immediately agrees:

“A mad plan it is, and yet… I have confidence in the two of them. I have seen the change in my son, both in his personality and his abilities, and no matter how desperately I might wish to protect him, to protect _the dwarf_ , I realized that, in the end, it was their choice. They are grown and… and they would not be happy, would not be _themselves_ if I coddled and sheltered them. Also, we do need their help in the matter.”

“You are right,” Thorin sighs heavily, before continuing with a clearly mischievous note, “…you saw it too, then?”

Once again, Thranduil does not ask and Gimli, who has no idea what his King is talking about, decides that yes, it is indeed time to be worried.

“It is rather obvious,” the elf states, and he sounds rather exasperated, now doesn’t he? “I wonder how long it is going to take before either acts on it…”

Acts on what??

“Ages, I fear,” Thorin grumbles, before adding after a moment of hesitation: “Care to make a wager?”

Thranduil’s laughter sounds bright and true. “Don’t mind if I do,” he agrees.

“Perfect! Well, as I fear we might have to wait for _years_ … I say they will not get their acts together before the decade has passed.”

The elf’s voice is wicked and like honey in a way that makes Gimli shudder with pleasure as he thinks of Legolas talking that way. “I shall put my money on a much shorter time span, then, if only to make this more interesting. If neither of them speaks up during or shortly after the battle, you win.”

“Prepare to lose, then,” Thorin chuckles, before asking: “What are the stakes?”

“The winner may put the loser into an embarrassing position. Nothing harmful or life-threatening, of course.”

Thorin’s toothy grin is almost audible in his voice and the distinct sound of a handshake.

“Done.”

Gimli’s eyes are wide, and next to him Legolas is not faring any better.

Another pause. Then-

“You spoke of protecting Gimli as well,” Thorin remarks, no judging in his deep voice.

“That I did. I… while I would strive to protect him even for but my son’s sake,” (and the eavesdropping dwarf’s heart aches upon hearing how dear Thranduil must think him to Legolas) “I find that it would be a lie if I claimed that to be the only reason. Gimli… is very much unlike any child of Mahal I ever met. Upon our first encounter I learned that he is as boisterous and spirited and bold as any other dwarf I have come upon, but he is also polite and tolerant and incredibly loyal to my son. Those are qualities I would have expected but my own people to have, and yet… he carried them like a crown, much like the two of them carry their experience and what they have gone through like both an armour and an open wound.”

“They _so_ do!” Thorin chuckles, and once more Legolas’ wide blue eyes find Gimli’s as they share in their shock.

“To be honest, Gimli’s attitude made me accept you more easily than I would have had I not met him,” the Elvenking admits, and the dwarf expresses both surprise and curiosity.

“Oh? How so?”

“The more I learned about him when you stayed in my dungeons, the more I respected this dwarf, who could treat me like a friend despite everything his family must have told him about me. He teased me much like he teased my son without offering insult, and he awaited me with understanding and forgiveness in his heart where almost any other dwarf would have had naught but condemnation.”

“He does have moments in which he behaves most un-dwarvish,” Thorin hums in agreement, and Gimli barely manages to supress an annoyed huff. “Yet I could be no prouder to call him a member of my family, and I expect you feel much the same way about your son.”

“The two of them are unlike any other pair that came before or shall come after,” Thranduil chuckles softly. “Courageous, perhaps a little mad, and most inspiring.”

“Indeed,” the King under the Mountain agrees. “Let us follow their example, then, and fight together – against the foe coming to our doorstep, and against any other foe that might be out there waiting for us!”

“For Legolas Thranduilion,” Thranduil says solemnly. “For Gimli Glóin’s son.”

“For Middle-Earth,” Thorin adds, “and against whatever enemy they found in the future!”

“Let this be the hour when we draw swords together,” the Elvenking prompts grimly, and Gimli’s heart is racing as he thinks that _this_ is history happening but a room away. The outcome of this tiny but so very powerful conversation he and Legolas are just now privy to will pass into legend much like the allegiance Elrond and Haldir offered at Helm’s Deep did.

“Let us join what strength we gained in the darkness we had to endure, and let our enemy quake before the united forces of elves, dwarves and men! War may have come between us – however, we had peace once, and we shall have it again! I never thought I would ever say this, but – I am proud to fight, and, if necessary, die alongside elf and man. I am, finally, ready to forgive and forget.”

“So am I,” Thranduil answers, and as companionable silence falls upon the old, dirty room that holds two mighty Kings and now also the memory of most powerful words another elf and dwarf leave the crumbling wall behind, Gimli _Elvellon_ elf-friend and Legolas  khuzd-bah dwarf-friend openly walking side by side once more.

They tread in silence for some time, both occupied with processing what they just heard.

It is Legolas who speaks up first, his hand finding Gimli’s shoulder as if it belonged there – after all, it _does_.

“That was… intense,” he states lowly, and the dwarf answers with a soft chuckle.

“Indeed.”

“Never would I have expected to witness such a conversation…”

“Neither would I have,” the redhead agrees. “There is so much hatred between our races… and yet, here we are, friends so close not even time could bring us apart.” (He pretends not to see the elf flinch at that.) “Maybe that was all it took – seeing that friendship is, indeed, possible.”

“And what stronger alliance could there be but one between elves and dwarves? The age of men may be approaching, and still…”

“…there are none to fight with the agility and experience of an elf, or to go to war with the strength and endurance of a dwarf,” Gimli finishes.

Legolas chuckles softly. “If we rallied an army of elves and dwarves, we might as well march into Mordor and take on Sauron head-on,” he jokes, mocking the self-praise they had just issued (no matter how true it may have been.)

“Perhaps we should,” the redhead grins. “Might spare us lots of trouble.”

Legolas’ bright laughter is still rolling through the hallways, joined by a deep dwarven rumble, when they reach the large room which houses the women, children and injured. Upon hearing the joyous sound more than one small face comes up from where it was previously buried in a mother’s arms, and a bright voice instantly rings through the hall.

“Gimin!” Thordis calls as she flings herself at the dwarf.

Gimli catches her with ease and lifts her up so that she can wrap her short, cool arms around his neck, clinging to him like she did not all that long ago when they were caught between flames and cold.

“And who would that young Lady be?” Legolas inquires softly, and the girl lifts her head long enough to tell him her name, before burying it in the fiery red beard before her eyes once again.

Chuckling softly Gimli sits down as he pulls her onto his lap, his back against a wall, and motions for his friend to do the same, before gently coaxing Thordis’ face out into the open once again. (And it does pay now that he had to watch Bombur’s children so often after the civilian caravans had reached Erebor and all adults were needed to help with the rebuilding.)

“Thordis, this is Legolas. He is a very dear friend – and he does not bite, I promise!”

Legolas snickers, and gives the shy girl his brightest smile (which does, admittedly, make Gimli’s heart beat a little faster than he would have liked).

“H-hello, Master Legolas,” Thordis murmurs, and the dwarf shares a soft grin with his friend.

“Hello, young Lady. Your name is Thordis, then?” Upon her nod he continues, “That is a very powerful name. A strong name for a strong Lady, hmm?”

As the girl offers a reluctant smile a name dances through Gimli’s thoughts, and he wonders whether Éowyn, too, was such a shy, sweet child. Maybe he should visit her, and see for himself? Meeting young Éomer ought to be most delightful as well…

Seeing the way the two time-travellers are caring for Thordis a few other young children find the courage to leave behind the safety of their mother’s arms, and soon Legolas and Gimli are surrounded by Laketown’s youngest, with Thordis having claimed the dwarf and Tilda perched on the elf’s lap. Sending Bain, who appears to be wavering between wanting to sit with them and feeling too old to join the small ones, to fetch Bilbo Gimli strikes up an old dwarvish nursery rhyme which his own mother used to sing to him, and Legolas hums along once he has picked up the tune.

Fortunately Bain returns almost immediately, Bilbo, Bofur and the princes in tow, and the time-traveller gladly hands over to the hobbit – he is the best story-teller, after all.

As Bilbo spins a tale of warriors and kings and a tiny, unimportant people who save the world (apparently, he remembers very well what Gimli told the Company about the Nine Walkers and the courage of hobbits), the children slowly gravitate towards him, and when Bofur and the boys begin acting what parts of the story Bilbo tells – Kíli making a great idiot of himself in his attempt to represent an elf – the two time-travellers slowly find themselves all but forgotten.

Snickering upon seeing Kíli try and be “light on his feet, and elegant in his movements” Gimli leans against the wall in his back, enjoying the spectacle, when Finna finds him.

“It seems I have to thank you once more, Master Gimin,” she says with a smile no less shy than her daughter’s was.

(Next to the dwarf, Legolas tenses.)

“Gimli,” he corrects her with a crooked smiled.

Her eyes widen, before she nods. “Yes, yes- … the men talked about time-travellers, are you- …”

“Aye,” the redhead nods, sighing. “My father is a member of our company, and half of them I am related to by blood. As such, I had to keep my true name a secret.”

“Of course,” she answers, appearing to be a bit overwhelmed. “Master Gimli it is, then. Although… Thordis might refuse to call you that.”

“I do not mind if she keeps calling me Gimin. I am, I fear, entirely too fond of her.”

Finna blushes with delight, and Legolas tenses even more. His long-fingered hand finds Gimli’s knee, squeezing in a way that is almost possessive, and why would he do that??

Whatever it is about Finna that upsets the elf, he is saved from it as more of the women come to thank them – both for their help when Laketown burned, and for distracting the children. Promising to pass the praise for the latter on to the story-teller and his actors, the two time-travellers sit back and enjoy the rest of the show. (The highlights of which include Kíli “jumping onto the back of a horse at full speed”, and warrior prince Fíli rescuing a “swooning maiden” Bofur, who has wrapped his coat around his hips to act as skirts. Wherever Bilbo got those ideas.)

Rescuing the princes and Bofur from their many young admirers Legolas then calms the mood (who knew children could laugh, or rather _screech_ , that loudly?) with singing an elvish lullaby (and just a bit of magic, Gimli is convinced) that actually carries most of the young straight into Irmo’s arms, and when the five of them tiptoe from the hall they are accompanied by the gratitude of the mothers they are leaving behind.

Taking the lead Legolas makes for the room the elves are staying in.

“I still need to inform my father and Tauriel of the upcoming conversation,” he explains, before leaving the dwarves and Bilbo to wait with Caleth as he dashes across the hall towards a golden head.

Gimli does his best not to try and set the young elven archer on fire with the dark looks he is giving her, ignoring the way Bilbo and Bofur are making fun of them as Fíli does much the same to Tauriel.

Fortunately the King and Prince of Mirkwood join them promptly, and Legolas gives Caleth no more than a tiny, gentle smile when she bows, blushing.

Bilbo is the one to herd them back to where the Company is waiting, impatience clear in his bright eyes.

“I am as curious as all of the others,” he explains upon Legolas’ inquiring glance, and it is both royal elves’ soft chuckle that carries them into a room filled with impatient dwarves ready to _have their answers_.

Gimli almost wishes it were already time to leave, for there are few things as intimidating as one’s family when they have _questions_.

Well, there is nothing to it – this is going to be a battle like any other.

Time to be courageous once more…

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay... more quotes! xD


	27. Concerned almost entirely with their own history

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **27\. Concerned almost entirely with their own history**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 1: Concerning Hobbits_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> ...aaaaand evenmore headcanon...

### 27\. Concerned almost entirely with their own history

“Perhaps we should all sit,” Thranduil prompts mildly once he has taken in the group of waiting dwarves. “This might take some time, I presume?”

“ _Perhaps_ we should all try and get some sleep,” Gimli mutters darkly even as he makes for an old, cobwebbed stone chair. “There is, after all, a battle awaiting.”

“You could not sleep anyway,” Legolas counteracts his last attempt to get out of this with a dismissive gesture. “You never sleep before battles.”

“Do tell me before which battles have _not_ slept!” the dwarf challenges stubbornly.

Legolas, who has claimed the chair next to his (and doesn’t he look rather hilarious, long limbs folded in order to be accommodated by a dwarf-sized chair?) raises an elegant eyebrow in disbelief. “The Battle of the Hornburg,” he lists immediately, “the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, the Battle of the Morannon. All three major battles we were involved in, to be precise.”

Gimli huffs in indignation. “The Battle for Helm’s Deep- _really_ , Legolas? It _took place at night_! As for the Battle for Minas Tirith – your remembrance might not work as well as mine, but we spent all night _dealing with the Dead and steering those Mahal-damned ships_! At which you were no better than me, I might add, and dwarves are _not_ meant to dwell aboard boats!”

Legolas looks a little put out, before brightening considerably. “What about the Battle of-”

“-the Black Gate?” Gimli interrupts him, pretending not to see Thranduil and Balin flinch at the mention of the Dark Gate of Mordor. “If I remember correctly – and my memory is more than precise, thank you very much – _you_ were the one who forced Aragorn, Éomer, Tharkûn, Imrahil and myself to sit in council late into the night, in our attempt to prepare for the battle as best we could!”

The elf opens his mouth once more, before closing it again and- … _pouting_.

Gimli cannot help but fondly roll his eyes, and it is the snicker of the princes that tears him from this banter with his best friend.

“You really do have quite the tale to tell, cousin,” Fíli remarks, and Kíli snorts.

“That was the understatement of the century!”

“Indeed,” Thorin drawls from where he is seated between Bilbo and his younger sisterson. “I am most intrigued… would you mind giving us an a little more… _detailed_ version of your story?”

Legolas and Gimli exchange a short, worried glance.

“It should not matter too much… now that we are actively attempting to change history,” the elf says slowly, hesitantly. “ _But – perhaps we should give the details to no one, if only to prevent the Dark Lord from finding out? He may have been driven from Dol Guldur, yet we have no certainty that he really dwells in Mordor now. Also, we do not know whether Curunír is still with us, or has given himself to the enemy already._ ”

“ _I trust all present with my life_ ,” Gimli answers, ignoring both his Companions’ shock when he talks fluent Sindarin, and the fear in Thranduil’s eyes upon hearing of the treachery of Saruman. (Or Tauriel’s surprise when he mentions trusting her with his life, along with Bilbo’s… _how_ is it even possible that he only now learns of the hobbit’s ability to talk the elvish tongue??) “ _However, I agree – we ought not to tell them too much._ ”

“ _I expect your companions will be more interested in how you fared than in what happened all over Middle-Earth. Perhaps we could later give my father and Thorin, as well as Balin, a little more information._ ”

“That might be prudent,” Gimli agrees. “ _Someone should know, in case we… fail. I propose we tell Bilbo also._ ”

“Would you mind _talking to us_ , now that we finally have the time to ask you those questions we want answered?” Dwalin gripes, arms crossed and strong muscles bulging.

“I thoroughly support that proposition,” Thranduil agrees immediately, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Bastard.

“Well, what would you like to know?” Gimli gives in. He may not like losing, but that does not mean he cannot be a gracious loser… if he wants to be…

“Everything, of course!” Ori exclaims excitedly, and both time-travellers freeze upon spotting the journal laying before him, and the quill in his ready fingers.

“Ori… perhaps this is not such a good idea,” Legolas carefully tries.

The young dwarf’s obvious confusion quickly prompts him to elaborate:

“I do not think it wise if you craft a transcript of what is told here. The risk of it being found is too great.”

“But who-”

“Curunír,” Thranduil, remembering what the two time-travellers had talked of before, interrupts him grimly, translating the Sindarin name for the dwarves: “Saruman.”

“He is another wizard, is he not?” Thorin asks, clearly confused. “Why should he-”

“He betrayed us.” This time Gimli is the one to interrupt. “ _The treachery of Saruman_ , it was called. A member of the White Council, he was chosen to take care of the Dark Lord after he was driven from Dol Guldur… At some point between then and the day when Gandalf identified the One Ring, Curunír chose to give his allegiance to the Enemy.”

“Quite possibly that happened when he found a Palantír,” Legolas adds, ignoring more startled gasps, “and attempted to use it against the Shadow, only to have his less desirable emotions amplified, which in the end led to his treason.”

“At least that was what Gandalf assumed to have been the reason,” the dwarf finishes. “And while I would try anything to keep him from going astray thusly, for he is powerful and wise indeed, and Rohan paid a painful price for his treachery – there is no certainty that he has not been corrupted already…” He hesitates for but a moment, before repeating grave words once spoken to them by Éomer, then banished Marshal of the Riddermark: “ _The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there they say, as an old man hooded and cloaked._ ”

“The man who told us this was one of those who had suffered greatly by Curunír’s doing,” Legolas explains quietly, sadly.

Silence falls, then, and shock is etched into more than one face, those who understand the extent of this disaster unable to keep raw, naked _fear_ from their eyes as well.

It is not Balin, however, who speaks up first; nor Thranduil, Thorin or Tauriel.

“Who _is_ Saruman?” Nori asks, sounding rather annoyed, and Gimli’s jaw drops in disbelief.

Ready to explain, however, he is beaten to it by the one he would expected it from the least:

“The White Wizard, like they already said,” Bilbo states. “He is the most powerful of the five wizards… yes?”

“At this point – he is,” Legolas agrees. “How do you know?”

The hobbit blushes when all eyes, even those of the present elves, suddenly turn towards him. “I… my father, he loved to read. And while my mother was all Took, and as wild as they ever come- … she enjoyed reading too, and together they… they collected a huge number of books concerning a vast number of topics, some even in Sindarin… most of which I read after-” He gulps heavily, “…after their deaths, in order to… well, distract myself.”

Thorin’s eyes are screaming bloody murder, presumably as he imagines Bilbo suddenly being all alone in that beautiful but large and _empty_ smial, and Gimli does not miss the exasperated glances exchanged by most present. (In fact, he may just be one of those exchanging said glances.)

“That does sound… bad,” Ori says, slowly, and with that simple statement the mood becomes sombre once more.

“Curunír abandoning us would indeed be a harbinger of dire times,” Thranduil immediately agrees, voice as grave as the matter itself. “I really do not wish to imagine what devastation he might have wrought upon joining forces with the enemy.”

“Is there anything we can do about it?” Balin asks wearily, and Legolas sighs.

“Apart from sending Gandalf to check up on him? No, I believe not. Besides, that would most decidedly also go awry, as Saruman is a rather proud person and would certainly take insult in a control visit from a _lesser_ wizard.”

“Lesser?” Bilbo asks, eyebrows raised.

“Saruman _is_ the head of their order,” Gimli reminds him, “and for good reason, as he is a man of great knowledge, skill and wisdom; and as such more than entitled to be proud. However, like any of us, he has less desirable traits as well.”

“Unfortunately, he later used his knowledge and skill against us,” Legolas continues. “He took over the mind of King Théoden, son of Thengel, son of Fengel, and banished those loyal to Rohan. Per chance we encountered them as we were tracking a party of uruks across the East Emnet-” Seeing the confusion in everyone’s eyes he interrupts himself to explain: “Uruk-hai. Orc-man or orc-elf, they were created by Sauron but improved upon by Saruman. Black-skinned, stronger in body than most orcs, and able to move in sunlight they were terrible foes.”

“You battled them?” Dwalin asks, grimly, and Gimli knows his face to match the old warrior’s voice.

“When we fought the Battle of the Hornburg, for the survival of Rohan, we stood against an army of 10,000 uruk-hai.”

Wild, fearful silence meets this revelation.

“How many were there of you?” Thorin asks quietly, hands flexing as if they were wishing to grip the hilt of Orcrist.

“300 soldiers and 100 peasants of Rohan, a delegation from Lothlórien numbering 500 Silvan elves – and the three of us.”

“Three?” Fíli asks, at the same time as Óin explains “How did you _survive_ such an assault??”

“While we survived,” Legolas answers lowly but fiercely, “many of the men did not, and an equal number of elves fell. I… Marchwarden Haldir, who had led the delegation, was among them.”

Quite without his consent Gimli’s hand finds the elf’s shoulder, squeezing it in an attempt to offer comfort – yet when he feels the blonde lean into the touch, a deep understanding and gratitude in his ever blue eyes, he is glad for his heart to have overruled his head – for now.

“Marchwarden Haldir – he is the one coming to our aid now, aye?” Glóin asks, frowning.

“He is,” Gimli confirms.

“Why?”

“Because both Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel know our story – the Lady of Light perhaps better than most. She saw many a truth in my mind when we met in Rivendell.”

“Then I understand the decision to send help,” Thranduil acknowledges, “as she would know the necessity. What, however, convinced them to send elves to your aid when you fought to keep the Hornburg?”

“The answer to that question is also the answer to Fíli’s,” Gimli explains after exchanging a short glance with Legolas. “I already mentioned the two men who came with us when we left to destroy the One Ring. One of them was Boromir, son of Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. The other… is already alive in this time, I even met him on our journey. Growing up in Rivendell, he is called Estel, and Lord Elrond raises him like he raised many of his line. While he will later join the Rangers of the North under the name of Strider, he is nobler than most: The last Chieftain of the Dúnedain his true name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son of Arador; and after the war was over he was crowned Elessar, King of Arnor and Gondor.”

Once more, a stunned silence reigns.

Then-

“Isildur’s heir?” Thranduil asks, stunned. “He was part of your Fellowship?”

“Indeed,” Legolas confirms, a soft smile on his lips. “We… had stayed in Lórien for a few nights, in an attempt to find peace after we had lost one of our own. The Lady of the Wood provided us with boats, in which we then rode down the Anduin, southwards. We camped the night at Parth Galen, but were attacked by a group of uruks after Boromir, bewitched by the Ring, tried to take it from Frodo. They were hunting us as Gollum, the creature that had kept it for centuries” – here Bilbo shudders – “had spilled the words _Baggins_ and _Shire_ upon being tortured by the enemy.”

The hobbit blanches, realizing how exactly Gollum must have obtained that information; and Gimli gives the younger one the most reassuring smile he can muster.

“As the warriors amongst us fought the uruks Frodo chose to leave and continue without us. Sam went after him; and Merry and Pippin threw themselves amidst our enemies in order to render Frodo’s escape possible. They were taken capture and Boromir-…”

“…died in his attempt to save them,” Gimli finishes gruffly when it seems his friend cannot continue. Quite understandably, for he too still feels the never-ending pain of having lost another of their Fellowship.

(It does not matter that Gandalf returned to them, seeing him fall had broken Gimli’s heart as well.)

Silence reigns as all present acknowledge the sacrifice of Boromir; and how cruel must it be, staring at the arrow waiting to be your death and knowing that there is no escape??

“There was only the three of us left then – Aragorn, Legolas and me,” Gimli continues in the end, voice hoarse with emotion still. “Knowing that there was no way to help Frodo and Sam now we chose to go after Merry and Pippin, for we could not abandon them to such a fate. That was the occasion I already told some of you of – when we were _travelling light_.” Some lips twitch at that, including his own, as the others imagine what a true dwarf might understand by such a request. “We tracked the Uruk-hai across the East Emnet and far into Rohan, running for _days_ on end. I was truly and utterly exhausted, attempting to keep up with an elf and a Dúnedain” – finally, laughter resounds in the small, private hall – “when we met Éomer, sisterson of Théoden-King, who had been banned. Their party had accomplished to slaughter those we had been tracking, piling and burning the corpses. We had thought the hobbits lost, then, until we realized that they had _not_ met their ends by Rohirrim’s blades, after all – and that their route of escape… had led them into Fangorn Forest.”

Almost all present groan as one, dwarves and elves equally aware of how unpleasant, how _dangerous_ stepping into Fangorn might be.

Bilbo, however, appears to be rather confused than worried. “I- … Why- … What is the problem with fleeing into a forest?” he asks slowly, hesitating.

Gimli’s head whips around so fast his necks cracks worryingly, dark eyes finding Legolas’ – filled with the same disbelief as his own.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me!” he groans incredulously, moaning as he realizes the truth of this. “Merry and Pippin – did not even _know_ what they got themselves into?”

“It was in the dark of night, Éomer said, when they came upon the uruks,” Legolas points out, slowly. “They… might very well not have been aware of where they were going, either.”

“From Bilbo’s reaction,” the redhead grumbles, “that is no valid excuse. Hobbits, apparently, do not know, or simply do not _fear_ , the dangers of Fangorn. My claim of madness then was more than justified!”

Upon seeing the hobbit’s indignation Legolas snorts.

“Painful as it may be, I have to agree with you,” the elf admits, never one to miss any chance to tease his friend.

“I never thought that day would come – you, admitting that I came to a right conclusion faster than you!” he, too, does not waste even a moment before retorting.

Bilbo’s impatient (but rather soft) voice tears them from their banter.

“Would you mind telling me what is _wrong_ with Fangorn?” he asks, sounding as if he might slap them any moment.

Another glance is exchanged, this time between more of those present.

(And it is rather unsettling, really, to see Thorin and Thranduil two of those sharing their disbelief with each other in a similar way!)

“Perhaps… Perhaps hobbits, being creatures of Yavanna, share a connection with ents and trees that we others do not understand?” Tauriel slowly suggests, eyebrows raised.

“I shall accept this as the truth, for now,” Gimli relents, grumbling, “for otherwise I might be tempted to say some more less-than-courteous things about hobbits. Anyway – we followed Merry and Pippin into Fangorn, hoping to save them still, only to find that they had gone with one of the tree shepherds!”

More exasperated groans can be heard at that; and Bilbo appears to be sulking.

(Thorin is watching him with an almost ridiculously love-struck expression. _Why??_ )

“We met someone else there, though – someone we did not expect,” Legolas continues smoothly. “Perhaps you can imagine our surprise when we came upon Gandalf, who told us of the hobbits’ fate and then prompted us to accompany him to Rohan!”

“We rode with him of course,” Gimli quickly carries on in attempt to quell the questions he can sense are about to spring forth. “The Rohirrim had gifted us with two horses whose former masters had been lost, Hasufel and Arod – and, oh, did that beast take delight in making my life harder!”

To everyone’s amusement a bright pearl of laughter then rolls through the room, and the redhead rather ungraciously buries his elbow in his beloved’s rips.

“I still believe you set that scoundrel against me, bribing it!” he claims amidst the general snorts of laughter.

“Me? How would I have done that, and why?” Legolas asks suddenly, too-innocent, and _Thranduil_ of all people snorts.

“You, my son, do _not_ look the part!”

“Father!” the blonde exclaims, betrayal raising his voice, and most of the dwarves break into roaring laughter even as Legolas pouts next to Gimli (and, oh, his lips are _begging_ to be kissed!) until – quite suddenly and unexpectedly, one might add – Ori smashes his fists against the table impatiently.

Silence falls and all eyes turn to stare at him.

“I want to hear the rest of the story!” he defends himself, even as his cheeks take on a distinctive red shade, and Nori chuckles softly.

“That you do, brother.”

Raising his eyebrows Gimli observes the way the general attention suddenly is directed at the two time-travellers once more.

“Gandalf’s steed,” Legolas continues seamlessly, apparently not fazed by the interruption, “believe it or not, was the Lord of all horses, of the race of the Mearas! Shadowfax, as he called him, has been his companion through many a hardship, and he bore him as securely as Hasufel and Arod bore us, across the West Emnet and up into Edoras. By trickery neither of us would have thought him capable of – though we truly should have! – Gandalf kept his staff even as we others had to hand over our weapons, and when we stepped before Théoden-King… we finally saw how terribly broken he really was, under the weight of Saruman’s spell holding him capture.”

“Gandalf, however, accomplished the unthinkable, and _drew Saruman as poison is drawn from a wound_ , and as we watched-”

“And how, pray tell,” a deep voice from a corner close to the door interrupts them, “did I accomplish such a feat?”

 

_TBC_


	28. Things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **28\. Things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers – Chapter 8: The Stairs of Cirith Ungol_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> I still owe you the rest of the 'story'...

### 28\. Things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for

_“And how, pray tell,” a deep voice from a corner close to the door interrupts them, “did I accomplish such a feat?”_

Gimli stares for but a moment before giving in to the urge to _groan_ , and buries his face in his hands.

Next to him, Legolas is cursing lowly.

“We should have known!”

“Of course we should have known,” the dwarf agrees glumly, grumbling as he shakes his head in disbelief. “He always pulls off feats such as this one!”

“Do I?” Gandalf asks mildly, puffing his pipe and leaning against the backrest of his chair as if he has been sitting in the corner of this small hall ever since this conversation has started… which is, of course, entirely possible.

Gimli groans again.

Bilbo, on the other hand, has the gall to _chuckle_.

Loudly.

“He is a wizard, lads, what did you expect?”

“Also, he is almost as curious as me,” Thranduil helpfully adds.

“You should have learned how to change the weather, instead of how to sneak about!” Gimli grumbles, eyes squinting. “Should I even bother asking how long you have been listening in on this conversation – which is very much _not_ the proper Gondorian way, I might add – and what in Mahal’s name you were doing in the mines, or would that be pointless in the first place?”

Gandalf’s singularly innocent expression tells him all he needs to know.

Just _perfect_.

“Did I ever happen to tell you how much of an annoying old coot you really are?”

The Grey Wizard chuckles softly.

“And still you appear to be rather fond of my-”

“-eccentrics?” Legolas offers, the corners of his pale, tempting lips twitching with amusement.

Gandalf hums in agreement, still puffing happily, and Gimli sighs in defeat.

“As I am quite sure you already found out that you were part of our Fellowship to destroy the One Ring,” he states matter-of-factly, “I believe you are also well aware of how dear you are to us – as dear to me, perhaps, as most of this company, even if a lot more obstinate.”

The old pilgrim’s smile is treacherously soft. “The Lady of Light shared some of what she saw in your mind with me,” he remarks absently, eyes on the wall (and his mind perhaps somewhere else entirely). “What she encountered… I have never seen her so shaken as when she confessed to me the evil we let fester in this world – unknowingly, maybe, yet we _did_ neglect our duty to protect the free peoples of Middle-Earth in whatever way possible. She shared images with me, impressions that- …”

His gaze finds Bilbo then, old eyes that hold a sadness few may ever relate to, and the hobbit gives his friend a tentative yet so very honest smile.

“She once asked me why I had chosen you of all people,” the wizard tells as if he were telling a story of someone else entirely, not speaking about most personal matters. “Why a _hobbit_? I told her that I found the small things to be what keeps evil at bay, everyday deeds of ordinary folk. Why choose Bilbo Baggins? Because you, smallest of all – you give me courage.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen, and there is a ridiculously proud smile dancing on Thorin’s lips.

“B-but… _how_?” the hobbit squeaks – rather adorably, one might add – and Gandalf’s smile is as gentle as it ever was.

“Because you had the courage to leave your comfortable, _safe_ life behind in order to help others through whatever dangers waiting for them.”

“But… I was _scared_!” Bilbo openly admits, maybe for the first time.

“Courage is not the absence of fear,” the wizard hums, and Gimli finds that he has seldom said anything so wise, “but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear.* If you could overcome your fear of a _dragon_ , being so small a creature, and of the only race well and truly _not_ made to fight – then how can I, sent here to _help_ , allow myself to be lesser than that?”

“L-lesser than me?” Bilbo stutters, disbelieving.

To everyone’s surprise, it is Thranduil who answers him, old eyes sad and far away.

“You may think us brave and courageous, Master Baggins – Mithrandir, and King Thorin, and Master Dwalin, and Gimli, and my son, and myself. Warriors who shy away from nothing?”

The hobbit nods, tentatively, and the elf gives him a grim, sincere smile.

“It is not courage that makes us go into battle time and again. It is fear – fear of what may come to be if we _don’t_.”

Thorin inclines his head in agreement, shoulders sagging.

“We dwarves do like to boast,” he admits easily, “about our prowess in battle, our abilities to fight… we were not meant to kill, though. We were meant to _endure_ , and in this world, killing – in order to stay alive ourselves – is most often part of that.”

The hobbit’s eyes are wide, fearful, even as one of his small hands finds Thorin’s strong arm, clinging to it.

That almost makes Gimli smile – almost.

“I _was_ born to do battle, Bilbo,” he adds, slowly, “and made into a warrior by everything the Valar and life threw at me – eager to fight, eager to _win_. By now… I am not even sure I could do anything else. Live in peace, and prosper? The world has made me who I am now. Never do I feel more alive than when my blood is thrumming through my veins and my ax is feeding off my foes’ lives. Yet, I would not shed a tear if there were no more wars and battles to be fought, and I would become useless… for no matter how well I dance with death, there is no guarantee whatsoever that he will not take me with him the next time, and no matter how capable I know Legolas to be – there has not been a single battle which has not made me fear for his life.”

The elf nudges his shoulder, a crooked smile on his pale lips, and Gimli cannot help but return it.

Glóin’s eyes are dark with both anger and sadness.

“The same goes for me, mellon nín,” Legolas admits easily. “I always fear for you, even knowing your strength and your abilities… yet I have never felt a dread more petrifying than when it was our hobbits’ lives we were fighting for, having lost sight of them one way or another… and never have I felt prouder than then, when even I was _terrified_ – and those tiny creatures still found the courage to accomplish all they did.”

 _Our hobbits_ , Gimli thinks fondly. Our hobbits indeed – I could not have been any prouder of you, either!

“I see, you share my thoughts on that matter,” Gandalf remarks, with a small smile gracing his lips. “Yet I would not want to belittle your own courage – you did, after all, set out to destroy the One Ring, and were quite ready to give your lives for that cause.”

“Sometimes living demands more courage than dying for the cause,” Gimli says softly, and the wizard inclines his head in acceptance.

“I should think you to know that,” he agrees gently. “Knowing that you gave your life for a good cause, for the sake of others, and being able to die in peace and with honour… I have no trouble imagining that to be easier than picking up the shards of what was left behind.”

The two time-travellers exchange a glance at that, and the dwarf finds himself fighting back tears he had not even realised rising.

“Then perhaps that was what I did?” Gandalf inquires softly, upon seeing their sadness, and a lonely tear makes it past Gimli’s defences.

“We went through Khazad-dûm,” Legolas says in way of an explanation, voice husky, and the Grey Pilgrim hums in understanding.

“Ahh. We encountered Durin’s Bane, then?” he asks matter-of-factly, apparently knowing already.

Almost all dwarves present gasp for air.

The time-travellers exchange another glance – Should we tell them?

They deserve to know their fates – and perhaps it would make them choose differently this time, thusly preserving their lives.

…

“The elves call Khazad-dûm _Moria_ ,” Gimli begins without much introduction, eyes on his still-blistered, thick fingers. He cannot look either of his uncles, nor Ori, in the eye – not with the news he has for them. “ _The Black Pit_. An apt name… even if I had chosen to ignore it at that time.”

Legolas’ hand easily finds his shoulder. “It was not your fault,” he whispers, voice strong and convinced.

The dwarf raises his gaze to look at his friend. “But it was, wasn’t it? _I_ made the suggestion to take that path, and I talked Frodo into it.”

“I highly doubt Frodo may be talked into anything,” the elf remarks rather drily, and Gimli snorts a laugh.

“Perhaps you are right.”

“I _am_ right,” the blond retorts, full of conviction. “Besides, what choice did we have? Saruman had a cruel alley in Caradhras, one whose strength we could not defeat, and making for the gap of Rohan would have brought us too close to Isengard. The hobbits were freezing, and no matter what Mithrandir knew about Durin’s Bane… all of us but him were expecting your kin’s welcome in those halls.”

Silence falls then, only to be broken by Balin:

“Your kin’s welcome?”

Gimli’s eyes find the advisor’s, and there he can see it-

The seed is already planted and taking root, the idea even now blossoming into concrete plans… If Thorin should fall again, and his sistersons, then Fundin’s son will not be serving under Dáin, but go to retake Moria once more.

“In 2989, an expedition set out to reclaim Khazad-dûm,” the redhead murmurs, eyes on his fingers once more as the thought of Balin going again is rather terrifying indeed. “A colony was successfully established, a considerable number of orcs and goblins killed… until, after five years, the letters stopped coming. We- … there was enough trouble in the East that there was no opportunity to invest the matter; and when – much later – our Fellowship finally passed through the mines in our attempt to cross the Misty Mountains…-”

“Boromir called it a _tomb_ ,” Legolas whispers darkly, “and a tomb it was. Not ale and hospitality awaited us, but death and darkness.”

“I am not shamed to say I shed many a tear after finding dear Balin’s grave,” Gimli grinds out, and all hell breaks loose.

Dwalin has jumped to his feet before any others have even processed the information, drawing his brother into a head-butt that makes even Gimli cringe, before grabbing his shoulders, shaking the older one even as he yells:

“You are _not_ going there! I can see it, I saw that glance before, you were already planning on doing so! Why did you not tell me??”

“I… it was something I only thought of after hearing about Thorin’s possible death,” Balin admits, quietly. “I… have given so much, we _all_ have given so much to win Erebor back, not only as a kingdom, but as a _home_ , and if there were any but Thorin or the boys to sit upon the throne- … I would stay here for the boys, of course, even if Thorin should fall.” His eyes are closed now, as those of everyone else are on him. “They more than deserve my loyalty, or anything else I might be able to offer them. To see another choose about the fate of our home, though… I do not believe I could stand that.”

“But- … you are going to _die_!” Ori exclaims, and the elderly advisor’s answering smile is rather grim.

“We all have to die sometime.”

As a horrified gasp travels across the room Gimli does not even realize the choice he has made before he has opened his mouth.

“But none should die too soon.”

“I am old. It would not be too soon for me.”

“It _would_ be for Ori.”

Shocked silence reigns once more.

“I… I was there?” Ori stutters, eyes wide and face white, even as Dori is clinging to his arm in a way that must certainly be painful.

“There was a book of sorts,” Legolas tells them quietly when Gimli finds himself unable to do so, “the Book of Mazarbul. It was a record, of the journey to Moria the expedition undertook, of the battles and skirmishes that took place within the mines, of what the colony managed to establish in those ancient halls and what ancient items they accomplished to recover. Gandalf took it from the skeleton fingers of a dwarf, and read the last pages in an attempt to find out what had happened, how it had come to- …”

“ _They have taken the bridge and the second hall_ ,” Gimli suddenly begins to recite, the words _burned_ into his brain forevermore by the dark flames of a fiery Maia. “ _We have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes, drums... drums in the deep._ ” Gandalf closes his eyes in defeat. “ _We cannot get out. A shadow lurks in the dark. We cannot get out... they are coming._ ”

The silence that follows is heavy, settling over the room like a dark blanket coming to isolate them from the rest of the world.

In the quiet, the single voice resounding in the halls where the men and elves dwell is heard all the better.

It belongs to a male, Gimli realizes, and after a few moments of listening without understanding even a single word, old terror and grief having taken him capture, the meaning of the beautiful Sindarin flowing like a clear mountain stream finally reaches him.

It is a song about battle – but in a way only elves may sing about fire and death.

The bright voice tells of hope as much as it tells of terror, of courage as much as it tells of fear, of _life_ as much as it tells of _death_.

The time-traveller remembers Haldir singing a similar song before the battle for Helm’s Deep, although he had not understood the words then – the impact, however, had been much the same. The elf’s distinct magic flows through the wide halls of Erebor as it is wound around the voice, the words, the _meaning_ ; and wherever it reaches hope blossoms.

This is indeed the distinctive way of the elves – to sing of battle and death, but to give strength to both those about to risk their lives and those staying behind.

As the last note dies away it also takes the dark, heavy blanket.

“Maethon,” Thranduil offers quietly, the first to break the silence. “My second in command, and as such the one to sing the Laerharthad.”

“It was beautiful,” Ori answers just as lowly, a tiny smile dancing on his young lips.

For a few more moments, a sense of peace fills the room.

Then-

“I… why did you not flee when you saw that there were none alive in the mines?” Fíli inquires, voice hoarse.

Gimli laughs humourlessly, the peace and beauty of before almost forgotten as the dreadful memories assault him once more. “Oh, we did try to, believe me!”

“What… what happened?” Kíli asks, sounding as if he is dreading the answer.

He might as well be.

“There was… a _beast_ ,” Legolas finally says, “in a lake made by the damming of the Sirannon, located before the West-gate. The boys- … Merry and Pippin, they had been throwing pebbles into the water, as we were waiting for Gandalf to solve the riddle of the Doors of Durin. They had woken the Watcher of the Water, as the book called it, and it almost took Frodo before shutting us in. There was no way but forward.”

“In the Chamber of Mazarbul,” Gimli continues tiredly, “Pippin once again fell prey to his Took side. As Gandalf read the book he managed to throw a bucket into a well” – all present groan almost as one, which would be hilarious if the mood were different – “and soon _we_ heard the drums in the deep.”

Another groan arises, this time not one of exasperated disbelief, but one of growing horror.

“We were attacked by an enormous amount of goblins, then, and- …”

“They had a cave-troll,” the redhead quotes Boromir, eliciting yet another groan.

“In the skirmish that followed Gimli tried his very best to avenge every single dwarf that had fallen there,” Legolas remarks rather fondly. “That was the first time I really began to understand the fire burning in Mahal’s children, for he fought with a fervour I had not seen before.”

“We all gave everything we had,” the dwarf reminds his friend (yet quite unable to keep the smile off his lips), before growing serious once more. “Even the hobbits tried their best… unfortunately, the troll chose Frodo as his victim.” Yet another groan.

Bilbo’s eyes are wide with fear. “What- … did he- …?”

“He survived,” Gimli answers, and the smile finds its way back onto his lips, “by grace of you and Thorin.”

“But- … _how_??” the hobbit demands to know, and the redhead feels the smile grow in intensity as he remembers a certain moment.

“When you met again in Rivendell, before we left for Mordor… you gave him what was perhaps your most prized possession,” he explains, voice a soft rumble, and the halfling’s eyes widen.

“The- … the shirt!” he exclaims in realization. “He wore the mail shirt!”

“Indeed,” Legolas smiles as the King’s face lightens up when he too understands. “Frodo would have been skewered otherwise, but not even the strength of a cave-troll may pierce Mithril.”

Even as most dwarves and Thranduil draw in a shocked breath after hearing of what Thorin has gifted his burglar with said King’s hand finds Bilbo’s; and as the hobbit is clinging to his fingers in turn an astonished silence falls when all others realize the magnitude of this gift.

Bilbo’s eyes are on Thorin’s hand linked with his when he murmurs:

“I have never been gladder that you have given me that shirt.”

“No matter how precious Mithril may be – the real worth of this coat lies in the lives it saves,” Thorin rumbles softly, and Gimli exploits this moment of distraction, leaning over and whispering into Legolas’ ear:

“ _I am sorely tempted to forgo my promise not to intervene… there is still time to lock them in a room before the battle, perhaps if we left them with a few hints…_ ”

As Legolas snorts with amusement Thranduil, who appears to have heard the whispered Sindarin, chuckles as he shakes his head.

“You, dear Gimli, are not one to talk.”

What is that even supposed to-

“About what?” Kíli immediately demands to know, directing the general attention back towards the time-travellers once more.

“I believe,” Gandalf interrupts the young dwarf, “that we have little time left before our two volunteers need to head for the arranged venue, and I would sorely like to know what else happened in Moria.”

Legolas and Gimli exchange another short glance, and the elf nods almost imperceptibly.

Quick and easy it is, then.

“Our stay in Khazad-dûm… was rather emotional in many ways,” he begins once more, determined to get this over with. He has dwelled on old pains for long enough. “As Gandalf had given me the Book of Mazarbul in order to bring it to Dáin after Pippin’s… _clumsiness_ , I quickly recognized the script… it took me but moments to understand that the very bony fingers he had taken it from had once belonged to a dear friend. Fortunately, I had not much time to think about dear Ori’s gruesome fate, and I actually managed to carry the book with me, out of Moria and into Lothlorien, where I read all pages left… I wish I had not.”

His face falls once more as his eyes find his uncle, and his father pales as he understands the meaning of his dark gaze.

“Óin, who had been a part of the exhibition, had been taken by the Watcher in the Water. I found… I found that I had much preferred not knowing his fate to the images that then assaulted me in my dreams.”

Glóin’s hand finds his brother’s arm much as Dori’s found Ori’s, and Thorin closes his eyes in defeat.

“If I had not died-”

“You are not going to die, not this time – I am not going to let that happen!” Gimli interrupts him aggressively, and Bilbo gives the time-traveller a grateful smile, no matter his tone.

“Gimli,” Gandalf barges in once more, “I need to know – _what happened_?”

The redhead stares at the wizard, still sitting next to the door, pipe all but forgotten-

…

“You died,” Legolas says simply, grimly. “We had fought off the goblins and the troll well enough, and were attempting to run, when Durin’s Bane chose to make an appearance.”

“What- … what _is_ this Durin’s Bane?” Bilbo dares to ask what the princes and Ori seem unable to.

“A Balrog of Morgoth,” Gimli all but growls, and as yet another groan echoes in the room Thranduil buries his face in his hands.

“We made it to the Bridge, somehow,” Legolas recalls tiredly. “Gandalf… Gandalf confronted the Balrog, barring it passage, and the bridge crumbled beneath the creature’s feet- … he almost went away in victory, but then one flaming whip came up and wrapped around his ankle…”

“You told us to fly, named us fools, before you fell,” the redhead tells the wizard, bitterly. “We barely managed to carry Frodo out, he was _devastated_ , and-…”

“Aragorn was the only one still clear enough of mind to lead us into the Hidden Land, and the Lady of Light then offered us the peace and protection of her Wood.”

“So I fell,” Gandalf hums, and he does not appear to be at odds with the fate he is to meet – or rather would be to meet, were this still the world it had been the first time.

Both time-travellers feel a peaceful calm enter their heart upon seeing him like this.

After all, he _knows_.

“And so you returned,” Legolas adds contently, ignoring the immediately arising clamour of yells and questions and instead reaching for his waterskin.

“I suppose I did,” the Grey Pilgrim agrees, thoughtfully running a hand down the length of his beard.

“Can wizards- … not be killed?” Balin asks carefully, voicing what everyone appears to be thinking.

“Oh, I would not say that. However, to defeat Saruman in a battle of minds… I would have to be of a higher station. And to be of a higher station _I_ would have to be the White Wizard, which would only be possible if he betrayed the Valar’s will, and I fell, so that I could be sent back in a different… shell.”

“That is possible?” Bilbo asks, wide-eyed.

“It is,” the wizard agrees. “I do… I do hope, however, that it will not be necessary this time. Perhaps Curumo can still be saved…”

“For all the trouble you had on your mind as Gandalf the Grey you certainly seemed happier then than you did as Gandalf the White,” Gimli agrees, sighing tiredly. “Alright, time to wrap this up – we need to leave soon. Are there any more questions – ones with short answers, mind you – that you want answered _now_?”

“Yes,” Bombur speaks up for the first time, “what about my children? Are they-…”

“…happy? They are,” the time-traveller affirms, and the round dwarf’s shoulders sag with relief. “In fact, you are going to have a whole lot more than you do now.”

As Bombur’s lips split into a beaming smile Dwalin asks:

“Did you fight in any more battles than those three you mentioned?”

“ _Battles_ , no,” Legolas declines. “Skirmishes, on the other hand – of those we had plenty.”

“There were more than enough battles, however, we did not take part in,” Gimli adds. “After all, we were on a mission we attempted to keep secret.” His grin is a little crooked, and more than one of his friends chuckles. “There were the First and Second Battle of the Fords of Isen – in the first of which Théodred, son of Théoden-King, who had led the Rohirrim, was mortally injured – and of course the Destruction of Isengard, realised by Merry, Pippin and the ents of Fangorn. Then there were the Siege of Lórien, the Battle of Mirkwood, and the Battle of Dale,” he lists, ignoring the reactions to the various names. “After the defeat of the Enemy one last battle took place, within the borders of the Shire – the Battle of Bywater. Did I miss any?”

“The Battle of Osgiliath,” Legolas completes the recital after a short moment of consideration, and Gimli nods in agreement.

For a short moment, silence falls once more.

“It was a full-blown war, then,” Dwalin states grimly.

Neither time-traveller knows what to say to that.

“Well, I have another question,” Óin barges in, bright eyes drilling into his brotherson’s. “How are you?”

“How… am I?” Gimli asks, a little confused, and the healer’s eyebrows draw together in annoyance.

“Yes, lad how _are you??_ How did you cope, how do you cope _now_?”

“I- …” The redhead finds himself quite lost for words. “I am well, really… at least I am now. During the war, there was little time to _cope_ , as you put it. Perhaps during our stay in Lorien… but while we grieved we were still of brighter spirits then. The horror only ever really and truly caught up with us after Boromir was slain, and all hobbits gone – whether voluntarily or taken. As we ran after the uruks who had captured Merry and Pippin- … there was no time to think, or even _breathe_ , really, and after that… everything went quickly. Whenever there were any calmer days, like those we spent in Edoras, they were soon superseded by more chaos, more pressure, more urgency – as we stayed with Théoden-King, after the Battle of the Hornburg, in Minas Tirith Gandalf talked Pippin into lighting the beacon of Amon Dîn, and then we rode for Gondor, and then – after Elrond had given to Aragorn Andúril, Flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil – we left the Rohirrim and went to bargain with the Dead, and then we fought the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and then we rode for the Black Gate, and then the Shadow fell, but the tip of Mount Doom exploded, and we thought the boys lost, and then the Eagles rescued and brought them to Rivendell, and we waited for Elrond to heal Frodo, and then we were simply grateful that so many of us were still alive, and- …” He takes a deep breath then, ignoring the wide eyes of all present (except for Gandalf of course), exchanging a fond glance with Legolas.

There had really been little time to grieve, or to be terrified. And in the end… the relief had been stronger than anything else.

(After a few years, perhaps, the weariness would have set in. He had not had years, though – barely even _months_.)

“Coming here was almost harder, really. In the war… I always knew what to do, where to be, whom to fight. Here I encountered new enemies – not knowing whether I would be able to change anything. Getting even closer with the boys, and fearing that I would lose them once more. Fearing that I would have to go through everything again. Now, though, now that I know what to do again – now I am alright.”

Óin’s smile is rather grim and understanding, but it is there none the less.

“Good,” is all he says on the matter, even as his brother attempts to hide the tear he is brushing away.

Oh dear. He had not thought-

Well.

Thranduil’s expression is rather similar to Glóin’s, and it is perfectly understandable, isn’t it? If his son were to go through anything like this, and he knew that he were not there to help them-

…

“I have another question,” Bilbo tears him from his thoughts.

“Aye?”

“Tell me more about Frodo!”

The two time-travellers exchange a short, fond glance, and Gimli settles back with a content sigh when Legolas offers to take over.

“I could tell you little in the time we have left now,” he begins, voice treacherously soft – but all of them loved their brave hobbits dearly, didn’t they? “He was perhaps one of the most courageous creatures in all of Middle-Earth… certainly one of the most sacrificing. He was bright, quick to understand what was at stake, and always ready to do what was necessary. And while he may at times have faltered, may have lost faith – he also held the love of the most loyal and optimistic hobbit to ever have stepped outside his smial. Sam Gamgee led him when he lost sight of what was important, and carried him when he could no longer walk, and talked to him of strawberries when there appeared to be nothing left but fire and death.”

As soft chuckles fill the hall deep in the Lonely Mountain Bilbo nods, satisfied.

“A clever lad – to talk of strawberries is a strategy worthy of the best hobbit.”

“And some of the best they were, those four,” Gimli murmurs fondly amidst the easy laughter the present dwarves and elves are spilling.

“Alright,” Gandalf takes over the reins once more, “one more question?”

Fíli and Kíli exchange a glance that would have made even Merry and Pippin nervous.

“Oh, I want to ask one – the most important of them all!” the dark-haired prince exclaims, and Gimli feels his heart sink to his boots. “Tell us about your love-live!”

The redhead splutters, and why are they even asking this, they _definitely_ know that Legolas is his One, and-

A dangerously mischievous smile forms on the lips of his beautiful elf.

Oh _no_.

“We told you of Éomer, sisterson of Théoden-King… he had a sister, Éowyn, Lady of the Shield-arm. She knew how to wield a sword, and was rather charming.”

“And she had a terrible crush on Aragorn,” Gimli reminds his friend with raised eyebrows, “at least until she knew him lost to Arwen, and met Faramir. Also, she was… not who I would be looking for.”

“You were _so_ coquetting with her!”

“Just like you were coquetting with Tauriel?” he asks pointedly, and Legolas harrumphs even as Tauriel blushes when everyone turns to look at her.

“I believe,” she says, clearing her throat, “that the two of you ought to leave now.”

Thranduil throws his head back and laughs, the _bastard_.

“She is correct, I am afraid,” Gandalf hums happily, looking entirely too happy in his chair in the corner.

With a sigh Thorin rises, makes for where Gimli is still sitting.

“You better prepare for battle, then. Make sure you have everything you need – I want to see you whole and healthy when we make for Ravenhill.” His face serious he clasps the red-head’s shoulders, knocks his forehead against the time-traveller’s. “Take care – you too,” he adds, turning to wish Legolas the best of luck as well, and that breaks the damn.

One after another the Company pour close, exchanging last words of encouragement with both.

In the end only the princes remain, the look in their eyes clearly requesting a few moments of privacy, and Legolas understands without needing to be told.

“I should wish Caleth luck too. Meet me there?”

Gimli nods, and then his friend leaves, followed by first both kings and then everyone else.

The moment they are alone the boys relax a little.

“Gimli- …” Fíli says, voice hoarse. “I- … if something goes wrong on Ravenhill, you _have_ to save Kíli. You _have_ to-”

“ _What??_ ” his brother asks incredulously, even as Gimli’s eyes widen as he understands, before then squinting in _fury_.

“You are _not_ going to sacrifice yourself!” he growls, and Fíli flinches back when the intensity of his friend’s anger reaches him. “I will not lose you – _either_ of you – again!”

“But-”

“ _No!_ You ask me to save him, because you could not live without him? Then please to tell me how _he_ is supposed to live without _you_!”

“That is _not_ -”

“It is _entirely_ the same!” Gimli snarls, close to exploding.

“How-”

“You know exactly how,” the redhead says, staring his friend down, _praying_ that he will finally understand. “And I hope for you that you _finally_ find the right words, because otherwise he might kill you.”

With that he marches away, leaving Fíli at the mercy of his fuming brother and hoping that those two, at least, will join their hearts on this eve of battle.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) quote by Ambrose Redmoon
> 
> \---
> 
> I've got bad news for you guys... :/
> 
> 1) I'll be gone for 3 weeks now (1 week of playing pen&paper RPGs - talk about being a nerd :p - and 2 weeks of scout camp) and there won't be any updates for that time - Sorry!
> 
> 2) My posting's pretty much caught up with what I've got written out. I hope I'll manage to keep up with my weekly updates, but I can't promise :/


	29. A fierce and jealous love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **29\. A fierce and jealous love**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> (So... of my 3 role-game characters, the scared surgeon (1) Cassawe did pretty well (she was used to surviving in the wild on her own, after having escaped from her rapist slaver); the fanatic votary (?) (2) Praiola died (after trying to attack one of our own, who she'd thought to be a friend but who turned out to be serving the Evil Nameless Thirteenth God; before being hit by a spell that made her attack the knights protecting her bosses instead - they killed her, but she took 2 down with her. I'm still not sure whether she died for the greater good, or in vain); and the aristocratic, too-gentle-for-her-world votary (3) Boroneé almost had to kill herself in the course of a ritual, two days after finding out that she was pregnant by her twin brother (who she was in a loving relationship with) in order to wipe out the disgrace of her family... That one week was... intense xD)
> 
> \---
> 
> So, finally, a new chapter. I really hope you like it, after such a long wait... (And please be proud of me, I rose early just so that I could upload it before work - since I'll have my boyfriend _and_ my grandmother over after)
> 
> Also, I'm afraid what I already warned you about last time is still a problem: this is the last chapter I've got written out. The next one's almost done, but... I have to work off (?) 60 hours, 20 for each week I was away... so I'm more than occupied :/

### 29\. A fierce and jealous love

Sighing tiredly Gimli climbs back up to the entrance hall, wishing desperately that the enemy were already upon them. Then, at least, there would be no time to think.

This day has been terribly long, and while most of his companions will now seek those few hours of sleep still left an even longer night is awaiting him.

Legolas should be able to spot any orc or warg scouts soon enough, and still – they need to leave at the dead of night if they truly wish to remain unseen.

Without really concentrating on it he mentally ticks off every piece of equipment he is carrying, routine taking over as he makes sure that all armour and weaponry is in place and in the best possible condition. The often-performed ritual is calming in a way any who are not warriors will hardly ever understand, and when he reaches the rooms the elves are occupying he has almost fallen into the detached state any impending battle sees him in.

He freezes, however, when he hears Legolas’ voice – coming from the small hall they already met Caleth in when they left to pick up the Company’s weapons still held by the elves.

He should _not_ be eavesdropping-

“Oh, Caleth,” his friend sighs in answer to whatever she must have said, and from where he is standing Gimli can easily see the blonde resting his pretty head against the petite elf’s shoulder. “Going and sharing my soul like that – was rather stupid of me, wasn’t it?”

The dark-haired archer offers him a terribly soft smile that makes the watching dwarf feel a little sick, and he closes his eyes in defeat.

She will be good for him, he reminds himself. _Extraordinary skill with the bow_ , he said – that should give them enough subjects of conversation for eternity.

“I think it rather romantic,” she remarks in the meantime, delicate fingers running along the fletching of yet another arrow in a ritual similar to Gimli’s own.

Legolas laughs at that, the sound short and sharp – but, in a way, gentle none the less; painfully reminding the dwarf of Merry’s reaction whenever he had been fondly exasperated with Pippin once more.

“I suppose you would – you are _always_ terribly romantic.”

“You are not one to talk,” Caleth immediately chides him, smiling, and Gimli slinks back around the corner, until he can no longer see them. Leaning against the wall in his back and letting Erebor’s familiar and welcome warmth seep into his body the way Legolas’ did not too long ago, he lets her soothe what little pain she can.

He should have known better than to come here, and listen in on a clearly private conversation.

Yet, at the same time – he finds himself unable to leave.

“I am the very image of a strong, independent warrior!” Legolas jokes weakly, and Gimli can easily imagine her raising an eyebrow, what with the incredulity colouring her mellow voice when she answers:

“You wrote a _ballad_ about how much finding the other half of your fëa changed you!”

A ballad, Gimli wonders, and he knows nothing of it? Surely the elf would have sung-

…

Also, Legolas having _shared his soul_ , that does sound terribly familiar-

Suddenly finding himself unable to witness this intimate togetherness any longer he barges around the corner, and deliberately does _not_ watch the way Legolas flinches away from Caleth, jumping to his feet and detaching himself from her lithe body in the process. He does feel a little guilty about thusly cutting their time with each other short (the eve of battle should always be spent with loved ones), but it _is_ time to leave-

“Are you ready?” the blonde asks with forced cheerfulness, and Gimli feels his heart squeeze painfully.

He will have to accept this.

Seeing Legolas happy is his ultimate goal, and if Caleth will be the one to bring him happiness-

…

All he needs to do is see the Ring destroyed. That much- … that much he _owes_ the Valar, for gifting him with this chance to save so many lives, so many loved-ones. Then, he will be free to do whatever he wants. To seek peace, and oblivion.

“Good luck,” Caleth wishes them – _both_ of them – with a genuine smile, long fingers still curled around an elegant arrow, and, oh, they fit together so painfully perfectly!

“Stay safe,” Legolas tells her solemnly. “I expect to see you whole and uninjured after the battle is over.”

“I will do my best,” she promises, and when Gimli follows his friend into the entrance hall and towards the Gate he can feel her gaze follow them until they are out of sight.

Sighing softly Legolas leans against a convenient wall when they have almost reached the exit, his eyes on the men guarding Erebor and its precious occupants.

“I do hope she will be careful. This is going to be her first battle…”

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Gimli desperately thinks about something to say that will not betray his true emotions.

“…she is with Maethon, aye?”

The blonde nods mutely, and the dwarf’s heart clenches painfully.

His friend’s worry for the beautiful elven maid is unmistakable.

“He is your father’s second in command, and you have spoken of him often enough for me to know that he would not have accepted her into his squad were he not convinced of her abilities.”

“You are right,” Legolas gulps, nodding. “Of course. I simply… she is so _young_ , by our standards, and I am still feeling terrible that we left her brother to die when we could have saved him,” he explains, and it is the redhead’s turn to sigh.

“I could have saved all those who burned and drowned in Laketown.”

The elf makes to object, only to snap his mouth closed upon realizing what Gimli means.

His shoulders sag.

“Alright,” he gives in. “We cannot save everyone… much as I wish we could.”

The red-haired dwarf’s smile is treacherously soft.

“So do I,” he agrees. “Yet, there is a long a-feared battle coming, and this much – this much we can do. So many elves and men and dwarves who will have a better chance today than they did last time. This is a change we _can_ make, one we _will_ make. We have a plan, a good strategy, fierce allies, and everyone knows they need to be careful. We can do this.”

“I sure hope so,” an unexpected voice remarks next to them, and both time-travellers jump with surprise before realizing that their ears (no matter how sharp especially the elf’s may be) have once again been fooled by the extraordinarily quiet feet of hobbits. “If you cannot do it no one can.”

“We will do everything in our power to save them,” Gimli vows, and Bilbo’s answering smile is a little crooked.

“That is exactly what I fear,” he admits, eyes wild with different emotions. “Please do not sacrifice your lives for them – your own are worth just as much as theirs, and you are just as well-loved as they are.”

“I- …” the dwarf hesitates for a moment, before reaching a decision he should have made long ago. “We will not,” he then promises. “The task before us is too important. I would do almost anything to save them, but- … not if it means sacrificing what chance we have been given to defeat the Shadow and help so many. We can do this,” he then adds once more.

“Of course you can,” a bright voice chips in to Gimli’s right

“I only hope that the same goes for us,” its brother agrees to his left, and both princes step forward – and where Kíli is bright and shining Fíli is dark and brooding, in stark contrast to their respective appearances. Yet, at the same time, the two youngest of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company seem to be carrying a burden less heavy than the one the time-traveller had seen when he had last spoken to them.

“Do not be afraid,” another voice – as deep and rumbling as Erebor herself – reaches them from behind Gimli’s back and the King under the Mountain steps next to his nephews. “You should never take a battle light-heartedly, of course, but fear – fear will creep into your heart and paralyze you. Do not fear that you will lose each other. It is a possibility, yes, but it was one through all the journey, and then you were stronger than your fear. Instead, think of how you can defend each other.”

“You are strong now, too.” Dwalin takes the place next to Thorin, and the time-traveller stops being surprised by dwarves (and hobbits) suddenly appearing without warning. “And you know what is awaiting you, what you must not do in all circumstances. As long as you stick to the plan – you will be fine.”

“If ye’re careful, both of ye’ll come out o’ this perfectly alright,” Bofur adds happily, puffing away at his pipe.

“All of us are afraid that our strategy will not work out,” Bilbo, who is standing suspiciously close to Thorin, murmurs. “That – maybe – Gimli and Legolas were never meant to change anything. None of us could stand losing either of you; or Thorin. But we have faith in your abilities, and trust that you will be careful.”

The hobbit is addressing all three royals, but at the same time looking only at the King, and what Gimli sees in his eyes makes the time-traveller’s heart ache with longing. Ever since Thorin has been himself again that look in Bilbo’s eyes has been growing in intensity (especially since the ordeal with the Arkenstone, the King’s most prized heirloom having been gifted to him), and it makes those flames in the redhead’s chest _burn_ , a fire hot and fierce and knowing – and painful.

_Agonizing_ , for what really kindles this blaze is the knowledge that he is looking, _staring_ at Legolas much the same way, the same longing in his dark eyes and the same fear in his old, foolish heart.

Thorin’s own eyes, in the meantime, do not evade the hobbit’s – but hold them capture instead. The world seems to die away around the two of them and Gimli – careful not to disturb them – steps away.

“It really is time for us to leave now,” he rumbles. “I am expecting to see all of you – alive – at the latest when the battle is over and won. Take care.”

With that he gently knocks his head against the princes’, and not so gently against his father’s once more, before determinedly marching towards the barricaded Gate and finally stepping out of Erebor through the exit that has been left open, inclining his head in greeting when the men who stand guard do the same.

As soon as he has made his way across the repaired bridge and the path down the lower slopes of the Mountain and towards the ruins of Dale is wide enough to allow for it Legolas falls into step next to him, one hand always on the hilt of the longsword he is carrying where the last time Orcrist had sat.

Gimli’s fingers are curled around the grip of his labrys much the same way – both time-travellers are only too aware of the fact that the orcs – while hidden away in whatever holes the Were-worms dwell in – are already _here_.

Yet no matter his alertness at the same time Legolas’ eyes are twinkling with amusement as they follow the path away from Erebor.

“ _That was rather sneaky of you, mellon nín – leaving them alone staring at one another the way they did._ ”

“It is about time they admit their feelings to each other,” Gimli mutters, trying his best not to let his friend see how much he would rather not be discussing this topic at such a time. “Thorin clearly has chosen Bilbo as his One. I do not know about hobbit love, but from what I saw in Frodo and Sam… it is very similar to ours. Neither of them will set their heart upon another, which would explain why Bilbo never married in our timeline – his heart would have belonged to Thorin until the end. So, I figured… if we are changing history anyway… we might as well make those two happy. This is definitely one of the things I am planning on setting right, no matter how hard I was trying to convince myself that meddling in such a way is Gandalf’s task.”

Soft pearls of bright laughter roll through the nighttime air.

“True, my friend. They do deserve to be happy.”

They then walk in silence for many long minutes until Legolas speaks up again.

“You said Bilbo was Thorin’s _One_. What does that mean?”

Gimli feels shock trickle down his spine as he freezes. “What?”

Legolas, too, stops and stares at his friend, bright eyes filled with curiosity.

“What does it mean? Is it similar to us elves binding our fëa to the one of our beloved?”

Forcing his locked muscles to relax, the dwarf takes a deep breath and returns to walking while he tries to decide on how to answer. He has heard of how the Firstborn willingly bind their souls to those they have set their hearts upon – the reason he has never told his friend of this part of dwarvish culture so similar to the elvish ways is as painful as it is obvious.

“It is a tie that can never be loosened again, aye?”

“That it is, yes. When we have chosen the person we wish to spend forever with… our fëar find theirs and an unbreakable bond is formed.”

“Then it is similar, yes. We, too, choose partners for a lifetime, and once we have set our hearts upon our chosen One our souls form a bond as well. I assume that what we call amrâb is much the same as your _fëa_ … different words for one thing.”

The thought alone makes Gimli’s heart stutter.

Would his soul be a fëa then, having taken another fëa as its partner instead of an amrâb?

He distinctly wonders what hobbits call their souls.

“So it seems,” Legolas murmurs, absorbed in thought. “Interesting… that two peoples so different such as elves and dwarves should share in this.”

I know we are different, he thinks, but deep inside us we are not that different at all.*

“The Father of All gave our marâb to us when he adopted Mahal’s children as his own.”

“We, too, were given our fëar by Eru,” the elf discloses. “As were men, but we have a stronger control over our _hröar_ – our bodies – than them. It is why men are more easily seduced by evil, and why Isildur and Boromir fell prey to the Ring’s luring so fast while other creatures, like hobbits, would withstand it for decades.”

“Huh. That is indeed fascinating. I never thought… but men do not set their souls upon others.”

The hobbits’ concept of souls would be more interesting to know than ever.

“No, they do not… at least most of them. I do believe that Aragorn bound his fëa to Arwen’s. However, he _is_ one of the Dúnedain…”

“Should not Isildur have resisted the Ring more easily then?” the dwarf wonders. “He was, after all, númenórean.”

“…you are right,” Legolas agrees, sounding surprised. “Perhaps it is not our stronger control over our hröar that allows us to bind our fëar to our partner’s after all…”

Silence falls once more as the elf ponders the unusual notion, apparently utterly taken with this unfamiliar concept.

“…I would, however, love to know how it is for Hobbits,” he then breaks the silence once again.

“Of course you would,” Gimli teases weakly, doing his best not to be too agitated by the similarity of their thoughts. “You are curious, as always.”

Legolas grins, unfazed. “Nothing new, is it?”

Quiet settles over them once more, then, but as time trickles on as they slink through the night, heading for the spot disclosed to both elves and dwarves by raven, the redhead can almost hear his friend think. He has long bound his amrâb to Legolas’ fëa, he knows, as that is what enables him to physically feel the elf’s presence.

He cannot, however, hear the other’s thoughts, no matter how clearly troubled he may be.

“Gimli?” the blonde finally speaks up, hesitantly. “May I… may I ask you a personal question?”

“Since when do you ask for permission?” the dwarf mutters good-naturedly, his thoughts having turned to ponder Thorin and Bilbo’s situation and the state of bonding their souls may or may not be in once more.

“It is a very personal question.”

“That has never stopped you before.”

“I- … it is not my place to ask, Gimli, but… still, I wish to know.”

The dwarf squints his eyes, growing nervous with his friend’s unusual behaviour. Oh dear – he sorely hopes that the blonde’s thoughts are not still with the matter of their marâb as well.

“I do not know you to be this hesitant, laddie.”

“I…” Legolas takes a deep breath. “Have you- … bound your amrâb to anyone’s?”

Calling on every ounce of self-control he possesses the dwarf manages not to show his shock, or freeze again.

His thoughts, however, have slammed to a stop much like his body almost has.

“Why ever would you think it was not your place to ask?” he somehow manages to answer – even without stammering! – in a poor attempt of leading his friend away from that topic.

“It _is_ very personal.”

“You never hesitated to talk to Aragorn, about his love to Arwen. And when Sam finally confessed his love for Frodo he, too, was not in the least save from your curious questions.”

“I… you… you are different,” Legolas finally admits, and, oh, that hurts.

“Why?” Gimli asks, ignoring the way his heart aches. It has taken too many blows already in this terribly long night, and he cannot allow it to break – not when battle is awaiting him. He cannot die tonight. “I thought you could talk to me about anything.”

Whether he succeeds at hiding his pain from his friend he could not tell.

“Anything – but the matters of the heart,” Legolas slowly admits, and then suddenly stops to sit down. As he elegantly sinks to the ground he takes his bow from his back, before resting against a huge rock situated on top of one of the large hills surrounding the Lonely Mountain.

They have reached their destination.

Lost to his thoughts and his attempts to hide his agony from his friend, Gimli did not even realize.

“And why would that be?” he cannot stop himself from asking (oh, he wishes he could! Truly, he does not want to hear the answer…) as he finds a place for himself on the hard ground, his dark eyes on nimble fingers readying an arrow.

Should any orc or warg make the mistake to approach their position it would not live long enough to regret its mistake.

Only once the delicate hands have stilled does the dwarf force himself to raise his gaze.

He finds the elf staring at him with an unavoidably intense gaze, deep blue eyes catching his own, and suddenly he can _watch_ as everything that makes the blonde seem harmless seeps away, making way for the almost feline predator.

Bottomless eyes are shining, drawing the dwarf in, deeper and deeper, and then the voice, sweet and thick as honey, rolls through the cool air and slams into him, attempting to tear down any defence he may ever have built.

“ _Please, Gimli, tell me. Have you already set your heart upon someone?_ ” And the Sindarin flows from Legolas’ pale, beautiful lips, more enchanting than ever and adding an extra layer to the elf’s magic.

The redhead desperately tries his very best not to answer, not to give away such a frantically kept secret-

In the end, however, he loses to the pull, the lure.

He loses to his _love_ for this creature and all its facets, having accepted this dangerous side of his fried so long ago that he is powerless in his attempt to defend himself against it.

“I- … why- … yes. Yes, I have,” he admits, before closing his eyes by force, with every ounce of strength he has left.

The moment the contact is broken Legolas’ magic, amplified thusly by the bond of their marâb, loses much of its strength, and the dwarf bows his head in defeat as he realizes what he has just given away.

“And – upon whom?” the elf asks, his voice trembling.

Gimli does not dare open his eyes again, less he fall prey to the pull once more.

Gritting his teeth, he forces the words he wants to speak to leave his mouth, keeping back those his friend’s spell is attempting to tear to the surface.

“I cannot tell you.”

He hears a sigh then, so heavy with disappointment it almost breaks his heart, yet the dwarf still keeps his eyes closed.

The risk that he would completely lose himself the next time is too great.

“Can you not tell me anything?”

“Anything – but the matters of the heart,” Gimli repeats the elf’s own words, and the anguished sound that is then drawn from Legolas’ lips he does not wish to dwell on.

Instead, he opts to stay silent for the remainder of the night, not wishing to torture his aching heart any more. Any other day he would have broken the hush; however, the preceding conversation has set his nerves on fire, laying them bare. He has no strength left to deal with the elf’s curiosity now, not when it concerns his  alnâsu, his love for this creature more beautiful and precious than any other.

They sit in silence until the darkness hesitantly begins to make way for the new day, slowly but surely being chased away by the rising sun.

Yet no more than a soft, orange glow can be seen in the east when the silence is finally broken, Legolas’ soft hum flowing through the air.

The dwarf turns his head to look at his friend, the low, unfamiliar tune barely reaching his ears.

The elf’s eyes are closed, and he seems to be lost in another world as the beautiful notes trickle from his lips.

Gimli listens in awe, his beloved’s voice a much-enjoyed sound, until Legolas’ lids snap open as he suddenly stops humming.

His eyes lock with Gimli’s, and the uneasy line of his mouth cannot be mistaken.

“Forgive me, mellon nín. I did not realize my thoughts would make it to my lips,” he murmurs, averting his head.

Gimli gulps heavily.

“That melody… I have never heard you sing it.”

“I have never sung it before.”

“… where did you learn it?”

“I did not.”

The question in Gimli’s eyes is not answered for many long moments.

“I wrote it myself.”

“What does it mean?”

To elves, all music is meaningful – an expression of their very soul-

That thought makes the dwarf freeze.

Legolas’ love for whoever he dedicated this song to was unmistakable.

“Thus… you have bound your fëa to your beloved’s as well?”

No answer is an answer, the redhead thinks, as he feels his heart ache even more. There is not much more he can take before reaching his breaking point.

“And- … who is your chosen one?” he then hears himself to ask, although he does not wish to hear the response.

At all.

An anguished sound is drawn from Legolas’ sweet lips.

“Do not demand that answer from me, mellon nín,” he begs.

Keeping his tears trapped behind his lids the dwarf complies, trying to extinguish the flames of sorrow setting his heart on fire. He had known that he would never have Legolas the way he so wishes to have him, had been fine with that – the elf’s friendship would have been enough. Still, he had – foolishly – assumed that his friend’s heart and soul were still free, that he would not have to know, would not have to _watch_ -

There is nothing like setting your heart upon someone and being rejected, no pain like the one of the heartbroken, no _agony_ \- … no worse ache than being alone.

Yet he is not alone, is he?

He is alive, the dwarf tries to remind himself with everything he has left. Legolas lives, and for as long as he does Gimli will never be truly alone.

No matter how much his heart may be aching.

A hand then finds his, tearing him from his thoughts, and the elf’s eyes are wide with sorrow.

“Forgive me, mellon nín. I do not wish to deny you any answer, but I fear – this one I cannot give.”

Gimli tries his best to smile (judging by the look Legolas gives him rather unsuccessfully) and forces his numb lips to offer an answer.

“There is nothing I would not forgive you.”

It is the blonde’s turn to attempt a smile, and unlike the younger one he does succeed.

“Never will I come to know how I deserved a friendship such as yours, Gimli, child of Aulë. I shall treasure it for as long as we share it, and never forget it until I leave this world.”

“We will always share it,” the dwarf mutters, clinging to the deep emotions resonating in his friend’s voice as he talks of what they _do_ have. “No matter whether I am walking this earth, or the Halls of Waiting.” A night before battle is not a night to be heartbroken.

Too great is the risk, and he still owes the Valar.

Legolas’ smile is more sincere this time, and they sit again in silence, until the sun paints the desolation left by Smaug all shades of golden – this time, however, it is a good, companionable silence.

And Gimli cannot help but think that if he should die in this battle after all, defending his King – the one he has pledged his service to – and protecting his One – the one he has set his heart and soul upon – it would be a good death despite everything, worth all the shame of having disappointed the Valar and Eru Ilúvatar himself.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …aaand even more headcanon…
> 
>  
> 
> * …yes, that’s a Tarzan quote ^^ You’ll Be in My Heart, Phil Collins – gotta love that song <3
> 
>  
> 
> And in case you were confused by the Khuzdul words: amrâb is the singular, and marâb the plural


	30. You are not without allies, even if you know them not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **30\. You are not without allies, even if you know them not**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers – Chapter 8: The Road to Isengard_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> So, I’m pretty proud that I managed to get this done in time (which translates to "having done most of the work this morning" ^^) and upload it :D
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I am very much _not_ responsible for Dáin’s behaviour.
> 
> Really!

### 30\. You are not without allies, even if you know them not

The sun slowly but surely crests the sky, the colours more vibrant than he has ever seen them, and a stray thought hits Gimli’s mind as he takes in the different shades of golden painting the eastern hills. “All that is gold does not glitter,” he murmurs, eyes still on the spectacle before him, although this first line of the old poem certainly does not apply to the glittering sight.

Next to him, Legolas smiles softly.

“Not all those who wander are lost.”

The dwarf does not need to look at his friend in order to know what – or rather who – he is thinking of. Estel may only be a child now, but under Lord Elrond’s gentle care he will grow to once more be one of the greatest men Middle-Earth has ever seen, no matter _Strider’s_ rather threadbare appearance.

“The old that is strong does not wither,” the dwarf continues, finding himself quite unable not to speak those lines telling about the incredible attributes of his dear friend.

“Deep roots are not reached by frost,” the elf finishes, longing obvious in his voice.

Of all the trials they have gone through, this one – travelling through time, helping Bilbo and attempting to save Thorin Oakenshield – Aragorn would have enjoyed sharing in the most.

“Do you think he will ever be King of Gondor? That he will ever be the man who was our friend and leader?” he asks, and Legolas closes his eyes. “After all, we will – hopefully – prevent the War of the Ring, and so much that was history for us will never come to be…”

The dwarf sighs. This has been on his mind for quite some time, but only to Legolas would he dare voice thoughts like those.

The elf offers him a soft, sad smile.

“From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; renewed shall be the blade that was broken – _the crownless again shall be king_. Much will be different this time, yes. We no longer know what the future will bring. But – never before has that scared either of us, Gimli, son of Glóin.”

The dwarf laughs, a sound short and sharp, but relieved none the less.

“I keep thinking that changing everything perhaps means we may never experience the hobbits’ extraordinary friendship, or share what we did with Aragorn. Then, however, I remember it also means that Boromir will live, and that Frodo will never suffer what he did the last time...”

“…a friendship,” Gimli continues as he understands what his friend is trying to tell him, “is a small price to pay for that friend’s happiness.”

“I would sacrifice any of those friendships if it meant I could spare those dear to me such suffering. Also, while I can barely wait to meet young Estel… although he is not _our_ Aragorn and perhaps – I hope! – never will be, I have beautiful memories of the three of us – memories I cherish, and will always carry with me. They – Aragorn, Frodo, Sam, Boromir, even Éowyn – will live on, as they were, in our hearts.”

A single tear escapes the dwarf’s eye as his friend’s words travel to his heart.

“Aye,” he murmurs. “They will.”

Legolas gifts him with one of his very rare smiles, those that make the elf shine like the sun itself and Gimli turn to him like a flower after long months of cold winter.

They warm his very _soul_.

Unable to do anything but return the smile the redhead then climbs to his feet, stepping away from the rock that has served as their backrest and stretching. His joints pop as he rouses them after their rest, and but moments later his fingers are ready to grip his ax once more.

Let the battle start.

Next to him, Legolas chuckles softly.

“Your little rituals have always amused me, mellon nín,” he says even as his own body twists this way and that, working out the fatigue and tension of such a long time spent sitting, and a night without sleep. “However, I do also take comfort in seeing them performed time and again.”

Gimli barely manages to tear his eyes away from the luxurious (and dangerously arousing) sight that is Legolas stretching, and instead lets them travel westward.

The elves, he expects, will come through Thranduil’s halls – while going around Mirkwood would not be too much of a detour for those travelling from Lórien he believes that Elrond’s and Galadriel’s warriors would join rather sooner than later.

His dark eyes then turn to face the other direction, the sun finally having surmounted the horizon in the East, and he makes out the dark shapes rising in the distance that are the Iron Hills.

Gimli wonders who will appear first.

He really hopes that both ravens have relayed their messages, and, well, if he were allowed to make a wish it would be for Dáin’s warriors to reach them before Elrond’s and Galadriel’s-

…

The elves, _of course_ , are the first to arrive.

Gimli curses under his breath, thinking how much easier it would have been to talk to the obstinate dwarven Lord without Imladris’ and Lórien’s best in his back.

Well.

Nothing is ever simple, is it?

Haldir, who is leading the elven warriors – as announced – steps forward and greets both time-travellers in the traditional way of his people, the strong bow he is carrying almost vibrating with his urge to slay the foul creatures awaiting them.

As Gimli returns the greeting, not bothering to hide his respect for the Marchwarden – nor his joy about seeing him alive and whole – behind him the elven archers and swordsmen fall into place, stepping into the tightly knit formation with the ease of centuries of training.

As always, the red-haired dwarf observes their elegance and discipline with open excitement, enjoying the liquid movements as much as he would revel in the show of strength and pugnacity presented at any dwarven army’s arrival.

“Legolas,” Haldir greets, voice as cool and aloofly collected as always. “It is most intriguing to see our Lady’s knowledge proven by the obvious change in you.”

“Haldir,” the Prince of the Woodland Realm replies in turn, smiling fondly. “We are most grateful for your aid!”

“Our Lady sent us,” is the marchwarden’s simple answer – and that is as much of an explanation and argumentation as anyone needs, isn’t it?

“Your raven informed us that you have mapped out an elaborate strategy. May we ask for details?” Hádhron – Gimli recognizes him as Haldir’s second from the gruelling battle for Helm’s Deep – inquires.

Legolas inclines his head, and the dwarf holds his breath as his friend begins to explain.

This is perhaps one of the two most challenging and critical steps of their plan.

(The other, of course, being convincing Dáin.)

“Indeed,” the blond time-traveller confirms smoothly. “As we have the advantage of already knowing most of the enemy’s tactics, we chose to exploit that. My father’s army, along with King Thorin Oakenshield’s Company and all able men, will hold the Mountain and fight before the Gates.”

“And we?” Hádhron asks sharply. “Are we to battle without the protection of the Mountain in our backs?”

“As our party will count a greater number than those deployed before the Gates – aye, we will,” Gimli confirms.

While Haldir appears to have accepted his Lady’s request to follow their command, Hádhron seems to be unwilling to agree to any of their plans without sharply questioning them.

“Does your own army count so few?” the red-haired archer tauntingly asks the Prince of Mirkwood, pointedly letting his eyes trail over the rows of his own men.

“Reinforcements for us should arrive within the hour,” the Gimli cannot help but barging in, answering the scornful question rather curtly as he desperately clings to his self-control. This very much unlikable character is sorely testing his patience, and while he has come to respect elves as a people, while he has learned not to despise them on principle – this one particular individual rubs him up the wrong way.

Very much so.

“And what kind of reinforcements are you talking about, please do tell?” Hádhron demands to know, making an effort to look at the furious dwarf down his nose.

The time-traveller squares his shoulders, doing his best to ignore the tension seeping into his dear friend’s stance. Legolas is only too aware of how his patience is rapidly and relentlessly fading.

“My cousin, Lord Dáin Ironfoot of the Iron Hills” (well, strictly speaking his third cousin once removed, but they _are_ of the same blood – descendants of Náin II to be precise – and dwarves do not care for that kind of nitpicking) “is due to arrive with the best of his warriors,” he snarls, head held high.

Hádhron huffs with indignation.

“We are to fight with _noeg_?” he asks disbelievingly.

“You were sent here to aid King Thorin Oakenshield,” Legolas reminds him unusually coolly.

“Yet we were not aware that you meant for us to share in a hazardous attack with them, instead of receiving the protection of fighting alongside King Thranduil’s men,” the redhead replies no less icily, obviously having understood their plan of surrounding the enemy; attacking from two sides at once.

“Both your Lady and our Lord have instructed us to follow the time-travellers’ lead. Do you have so little faith in their knowledge and judgement?” a soft voice with a surprisingly sharp edge demands, and two dark-haired warriors step from the tight formation.

Gimli would not have needed to see the resemblance to realize the honour and trust placed in them by Lord Elrond, who has judged the significance of their quest and sent his own sons to aid in it.

“Master Elladan,” he greets with the required amount of respect and incline of his head. “Master Elrohir – _Vedui'_.”

Legolas welcomes them in a considerably more personal way, a delighted smile dancing on his lips.

“It has been too long!”

“Indeed,” one of the brothers – Elrohir? – agrees joyfully, a worryingly excited twinkle shining in his soft brown eyes. “Especially since you have changed quite noticeably!”

“That I have,” the blonde confirms impartially.

“Well, go on then!” the second twin – Elladan?? – prompts, his own eyes alight with the same twinkle as his brother’s. “Do share your plan!”

“We would rather wait for my cousin to arrive, and explain the details not twice but only once.”

“You mean – _and address the same stupid and intolerant questions not twice but only once_ ,” Elrohir (as Gimli has chosen to call him for the time being) happily corrects the dwarf, that damn twinkle still shining brightly.

Some of the elves – with Hádhron leading the way – bristle with indignation, appearing rather affronted, and the time-traveller’s gaze finds Elrohir’s.

Next to him, Legolas begins to roll his eyes when Gimli’s lips break into a toothy grin before he has even opened his mouth to agree:

“I could not have said it any better.”

“I knew it!” Elrohir whoops – Kíli could not have behaved any less seriously – and Haldir finally steps forward.

“This discussion is moot,” he intervenes before any of his warriors can get worked up over the perceived insult, expression as stony as always, “as the dwarves are almost here anyway. To do anything but wait for their arrival would be rather pointless.”

Now that he has put his foot down none of the elves dare complain any longer, and those that have relaxed or broken from the formation easily flow back to their positions, the twins’ places being filled without any comment on the matter.

In the meantime, both of Elrond’s sons choose to stay with Legolas in a blatant display of their outranking Haldir and – more importantly – Hádhron.

Gimli spontaneously decides that he likes the _brothers of doom_ , as Aragorn used to call them.

Then all heads but the dwarf’s suddenly whirl around to face the same direction and it is but Haldir’s hurriedly raised hand that stops the elven army from greeting the arriving dwarves with a closed front and drawn swords.

Gimli squints against the light and soon his sharp eyes make out a dark mass coming up from East, and – but moments later – his feet pick up the rhythmic, pulsating vibration of the ground tread by 500 heavy dwarven boots in purposeful cadence.

Where the elves’ eyesight is incomparably better than his own a dwarf’s sense for rock and stone is unparalleled.

Smiling grimly Gimli adopts a stronger stance, as if ready to fight, when he spots Dáin’s infamous boar at the head of the arriving army (he has never been too fond of the beast); ax as always at the ready. After all, the orcs might be right underneath them-

…

Dáin, of course, has spotted the party awaiting him from miles away – it would have been hard not to, with how the elves’ shiny armour is glinting in the light of the sun still cresting the now blue sky.

Behind him, 25 rows of 20 dwarrow each march for their destination, well-nigh unstoppable in their unwavering advance.

Their lord draws to a halt a mere three feet away from Gimli, and like a well-designed machine his army falls into place behind him – their formation no less powerful and impressive than the elves’. Where the firstborn are strung tight like a bowstring, each of them an arrow to be fired at any moment, Mahal’s children are brimming with strength and angry pugnacity, waiting to explode and wreak havoc like Saruman’s bomb. Either are deadly in their skill, their discipline and their readiness to fight.

That, of course, is exactly what worries Gimli the most – if the two parties should forego all reasoning and choose to fight each other instead of standing together… all might be lost.

(Also, the unnecessarily close proximity of Dáin’s boar – what was the damned beast’s name? Thorwaldur? Steinólfur? – is not exactly helping matters.)

Dáin himself leans forward then, eyes squinted and fanged braids swaying. Bottomless seas almost as dark as Gimli’s own find the redhead, taking in every detail.

There is many a reason why Dáin Ironfoot – obstinate and notoriously hard to reason with though he may be – is the lord and ruler of the Iron Hills… his attentiveness and power of deduction are but two of them.

Bushy, russet eyebrows rise in surprise and realisation.

“Gimli!” Dáin exclaims, deep voice booming. “Glóin’s lad – you _have_ to be!”

“I am,” Gimli confirms, astonishment colouring his words. “…how did you know?”

“Thorin – I am _not_ going to call him by his full title right now, it is too damn long, and, well, he _is_ still my cousin! – well, he sent a message per raven, of course – the elves got one too, I presume? – and, well, it clearly came from him – it _must_ have, there were too many insults for it to have been Balin’s wording” some of the elves snicker, with Elladan and Elrohir leading the way “and anyway, he – it? – spoke of a time-traveller – or rather two – and, well, of much else, too – most noticeably the ale stores you are lacking – but it – the raven, but by extension Thorin, of course – instructed us – or rather _me_ , as I am apparently the _most uncertain element_ – instructed us to follow your lead, and I was doubtful, of course – when have I ever willingly followed anyone’s lead? – but if it is wee Gimli who has come back to us through time – by the way, how in Mahal’s name did you accomplish such a feat?? – and, well, you _are_ family – certainly close enough for me to recognize you, with the hints I have been given – anyway, since it is you I am at least ready to _try_ and listen to you.”

…Dáin is also infamous for his rambling speeches. Not even the Throne under the Mountain had cured him of this tendency to talk as he thinks, no matter his illustrious position. (Repeatedly Gimli had seen Balin despair over his attempts to change that fact, before he had left for Moria.)

The Lord of the Iron Hills stares at Gimli expectantly, and as most of the elves look on in open-mouthed bewilderment – not yet having recovered from the verbal hurricane sweeping across them – he answers with a toothy grin matching his cousin’s:

“I am indeed Gimli Glóin’s son – and you are a sight for sore eyes!”

Where familiarity is offered it might as well be returned.

“You bet!” comes the immediate retort, and Gimli’s grin widens.

This – the straightforward brashness – is what he knows how to deal with, not Hádhron’s thinly veiled insults barely hidden beneath a flimsy layer of dishonest politeness.

“So – what _is_ the plan?”

“…how much did Thorin tell you?” the redhead inquires carefully, well aware that he might be setting off another avalanche of information.

Dáin’s eyes are worryingly bright with excitement.

“Well, he repeated that he had the mountain, of course – but he did not mention his Arkenstone again? – and that he made peace with _Thranduil_ of all people – no offence – and that he has provided all elves and men with shelter – but not with food, of course, as apparently there is as little food as ale, pity! – and that he went gold-mad, but has recovered – well, aren’t we lucky? – and that there were time-travellers, of course, as I already mentioned – one of our own, and the second an elf – and, well, that you knew the plan and we should follow your lead. Oh – and he also mentioned that we were going to meet with a bunch of the weed-eaters – his words, not mine – and he almost begged me not to attack them – you – at first sight… which I did, obviously!”

He appears to be mightily proud of himself.

(So is Gimli.)

The redhead mentally picks apart the rambling speech, immediately knowing which matter needs to be addressed first.

“…about the Arkenstone,” he begins slowly, hesitantly. It is _definitely_ a good idea to tell Dáin about the King’s Jewell’s current owner before he runs into Thorin and demands to see it – however, Gimli is the exact opposite of enthusiastic over being the one to inform him.

Dáin raises his bushy eyebrows in interest, waiting for his not-quite-so-young-anymore cousin to elaborate.

The redhead, in the meantime, sighs dramatically.

“It was part of the reason why he fell under the dragon’s spell quite so fast and fully… as he commanded us to search for it, he lost himself more and more to the gold-lust. Bilbo… the hobbit who is a member of our Company, Bilbo Baggins, kept it from Thorin in the vain hope he would get better. After we had beat the dragon’s magic, when the matter was raised in council and he realized that he was still susceptible to it…” He gulps, prepared to defend his King’s right to give away his most prized possession with whatever means necessary.

Dáin, in the meantime, rolls his eyes.

“Well, out with it – what did he do?”

“…He gave it to Bilbo.”

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, it's _not_ my fault Dáin behaves that way!
> 
> ...it's kind of annoying, isn't it? Everyone's being _nice_ :o  
>  (Well, except for Hadhron. ...I don't like him.)
> 
>  
> 
> Also, a friend showed me this **really** dangerous "Scene Maker" (http://www.dolldivine.com/hobbit-and-lotr-dress-up-game.php) where you can create most major charas from both LotR and hobbit... and your own as well. (I may or may not have spent a ridiculous amount of time there putting Legolas &Gimli, Fili'n'Kili, Bilbo&Thorin, Finna, Einarr, Hadhron, Maethon, Caleth and Nordri together...)


	31. To discuss our plans, our ways, means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **31\. To discuss our plans, our ways, means**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> ...yeah, I'm not overly happy with this chapter. (Another filler - yaaay)
> 
> (also, I had a shit day, so please excuse any mistakes or sarkasm)
> 
> ...and Dáin is being even more ridiculous - _yaaay_.
> 
> (Still not my fault.)

### 31\. To discuss our plans, our ways, means

_“…He gave the Arkenstone to Bilbo.”_

For a few very long moments, this revelation is met with naught but incredulous silence.

Then-

…

“He did _what_??” a blond dwarf with a truly magnificent beard, who is standing next to his Lord, exclaims in outrage. Gimli easily recognizes him from the time when Dáin Ironfoot had been King under the Mountain – he is Nordri, son of Surdri, his cousin’s best warrior and most trusted advisor.

Dáin, in the meantime, has the gall to throw his head back and _laugh_ , booming voice rolling across the hills and into the valleys.

“I might have guessed – it was about time!”

“I probably should correct the assumption you have clearly made,” Gimli remarks sourly, and the Lord’s laughter subsides… his eyes, however, are still shining with amusement.

“Bilbo is entirely unaware of the meaning of receiving – and accepting – such a gift… and I believe Thorin never even intended for him to understand.”

Dáin’s face falls almost comically.

“No courtship, then?”

He sounds truly disappointed, and ignores the way the listening elves gasp for air drawing on years of practice.

“We have not yet given up hope,” Legolas reveals, a sly grin on his lips. “Perhaps after the battle, with a little help from us…”

“Count me in,” Dáin immediately declares, already having regained his boisterous spirit.

Next to him, Nordri rolls his eyes.

(He used to be one of Balin’s strongest allies in his quest to cure the King from his urge to ramble and go for informality whether or not the situation called for it, Gimli remembers. Those two had gotten along dangerously well before Balin had left.)

“…what about the strategy?” the blond dwarf (quite desperately) attempts to redirect their conversation – away from most precious jewels and not-quite courting kings, and back to the battle slowly but surely drawing closer.

“It is quite simple, actually – we stay in this valley, hopefully hidden from the enemy’s sight, and attack when the Horn of Erebor sounds,” Gimli summarizes what long hours of council have brought forth. “As the others will attempt to keep the battle to the plain before the Gates and not letting it spread we hope to have a perfect opportunity to empocket the enemy between the Mountain, Ravenhill and the southern hills, thus our attack will need to take place before Azog sends troops to the ruins of Dale. We can then drive the orcs and whatever else they bring into the waiting arrows of the Mirkwood archer squads placed on the battlements.”

Appreciative murmurs can be heard.

“Any more complex pieces of strategy?” Dáin asks, clearly pleased with what he has been told so far, while Nordri turns to confer with a grey-haired and heavily scarred dwarf standing at the front of the formation.

Hádhron appears to be sulking.

“We have prepared a few easy but effective pieces of tactic for pairs of one elven and one dwarven warrior each, should any of you be ready to draw on the advantages such an arrangement would offer,” Legolas carefully coaxes. “Those pairs would be best suited for pushing forward and into the main body of the enemy army.”

“The others, in the meantime, need to keep the orcs from empocketing _us_. A number of dwarves will need to form a shield wall, which should give the elven archers of the Imladris and Lothlorien troops room to employ their full abilities. All who are not part of one of these two squads will either form a mixed pair, or stay behind the wall in order to offer the long-distance fighters some layer of protection in case any orcs make it around our defensive wall,” Gimli continues.

Hádhron loses no time before bristling.

“You expect us to fight in _pairs with noeg_??”

“Well, we are ready to fight in pairs with elves!” Nordri – after exchanging a quick glance with is Lord – proudly announces. (And really, Gimli is pretty sure Dáin is only allowing this in order to annoy the elves! Well – he is not going to complain.) “If 250 form the wall and another 50 stay behind in order to protect them and the archers if necessary, we have 200 left for the pairs.”

“We will _not_ -” Hádhron begins, only to be immediately – and quite unexpectedly – interrupted by Haldir.

“We _will_ ,” the blonde corrects him coolly, almost succeeding at hiding his displeasure. “200 of our swordsmen will pair up with the dwarves. We have 500 archers, and 100 more swordfighters stay behind the wall as well. That leaves another 400 – what do you propose they do?” he asks the Prince of Mirkwood.

“Team up as well – especially if there are any well attuned pairs – and push forward with the mixed pairs,” Legolas suggests.

Dáin nods in approval, before suddenly declaring:

“I will pair up with blondie here!” There is no mistaking who he is talking of, as his twinkling eyes are clearly focussed on Haldir’s frozen form. “Together we ought to be a force to be reckoned with!”

Never underestimate a dwarf’s self-confidence.

(Or his will to make an elf feel uncomfortable.)

Huh, who would have thought that – the elves being bitchier about working together than the dwarves is certainly a surprise.

… Well.

Dáin has always been unpredictable.

“I… alright,” an unusually flustered Haldir agrees after a short, tense moment of hesitation.

Both of Elrond’s sons whoop in excitement.

“We would have loved to set a good example, of course,” maybe-Elladan begins,

“…but seeing as we are _perfectly_ attuned to each other that would be a waste of good resources,” perhaps-Elrohir finishes his brother’s sentence, both of them grinning broadly.

Even as Gimli groans (he can only pray they _never_ teach that particular skill to Fíli and Kíli) Legolas rolls his eyes in a terribly fond way.

“Of course you are,” he mutters good-naturedly. “But take the battle seriously – please?”

“We promise,” possibly-Elladan replies cheekily, and the blonde sighs in defeat.

“What about the two of you?” presumably-Elrohir then wants to know.

It is Gimli’s turn to roll his eyes.

“We are at least as attuned to each other as you are,” he proclaims drily, “and as such will fight as a pair as well.”

“You are to lead that troop, then, I assume?” Dáin asks distractedly even as he climbs off the damn beast. “Hallvadur shall be fighting with us – he can take care of himself,” he then adds, fondly patting the huge boar’s flank.

The two time-travellers exchange a short glance, choosing to ignore the Lord’s inexplicable (and quite annoying) love for his rather outsized pet for the moment – it is time to let them know about that one particular plan.

(Not that he is looking forward to it.)

“We were going to ask the two of you to lead,” Gimli begins somewhat warily.

“And why? We have, after all, been instructed to follow _your_ command,” Haldir reminds them, pale eyebrows raised in inquiry.

“Well, first of all – neither of us are commanders,” Legolas tries to explain. “We have both been in plenty of battles, but coordinating our forces? We have no experience with that.”

Both Dáin and Nordri hum in acceptance; and it seems to be only the twins’ warning glares that stop Hádhron from making a contemptuous remark.

“Also,” Gimli suddenly adds, “our strategy includes King Thorin riding onto Ravenhill in order to take out Azog-”

“-and you are to accompany him,” Dáin understands immediately. “Well. I guess that leaves us no choice – blondie, we shall have to coordinate this chaotic bunch.”

He looks worryingly excited about that, while Haldir’s expression is rather pained.

(Gimli, in the meantime, is absolutely delighted that no one questioned their ability to fight their way through-)

“Nordri,” the Lord continues without taking notice of his future partner’s open discomfort, “will be in charge of the wall, and those positioned with the archers are Hanar’s responsibility.” He gestures towards the scarred dwarf Nordri conferred with, who inclines his head in acceptance.

Haldir sighs.

“The archers are Hádhron’s,” he moves on with the allocation, “and Elladan is responsible for coordinating the elf-only pairs.”

One of the twins steps forward, and _ha_ , now Gimli knows who the name belongs to! (It does not matter that he has chosen to call him Elrohir in his mind, not at all.) …until they move and have the opportunity to change places at least.

…

Ahh, who cares.

Knowing for a short time is better than never knowing at all… right?

“Faervel,” Haldir continues, utterly unaware of the time-traveller’s internal struggle, “is in charge of those behind the wall.” Another – rather tall – elf steps from the formation. “We ought to allocate the squads now…”

He appears to be a little scatter-brained.

Dáin, in the meantime, nods in sage agreement. His dark eyes glittering excitedly, and then-

…

All hell breaks loose.

No matter how dear a friend Legolas is, and how much he may know about dwarven culture by now – having only ever come to Erebor after the end of the War and combat operations he has never experienced the traditional fights over warriors assigned to different troops.

However, Gimli has always expected that – to an organized, well-coordinated elven fighter – the sight might be rather bemusing.

With open incredulity Legolas observes as Dáin, Nordri and Hanar suddenly burst into a fierce discussion concerning what seems to be every single warrior of the dwarven army.

Grinning contently Gimli leans back and enjoys the show… figuratively, of course, and trying his best not to let his amusement show – there will be considerably better times for teasing his friend about the shocked disbelief showing in his wide blue eyes.

He has grown up with rows of that kind, as any proper battle game has the participating dwarflings fighting over their warriors.

(Oh, how often did Fíli and Kíli end up scuffling when neither was ready to let the other have Gimli!)

Elves, he did already suspect, apparently do things a little differently – quite obviously, in fact, for all of Haldir’s men watch with the same disbelief Legolas is showing.

Dáin, Nordri and Hanar, in the meantime, are having the best time a dwarf can have before battle.

“I want Flosi,” Dáin declares, “he is good in the thick of battle, _and_ at working together!”

A few of the warriors were allocated easily, without any dispute about the squad they should be part of.

“No no no!” Nordri yells – loudly, one might add – and crosses his thick, muscled arms. “He is _better_ in a shield wall, and working together is even more essential for my men!”

Over the others, however, intense quarrels flared up, and negotiations (as the dwarves might call them) have long been initiated. The three commanders haggle over the individual warriors like the most enthusiastic merchants in Dale’s best times over their wares.

“Hmph,” Dáin huffs, apparently having nothing to counter his second’s argument with. “Alright, I will give you Flosi if I get Hrappr and Hámundur!”

The warriors concerned, in the meantime, are entirely unaffected by hearing their strengths and failings listed so openly.

“But Hámundur is mine!” Hanar immediately protests.

To them, this is normal, and whilst being fought over is certainly an honour – none of them would be here if they were not the best the Iron Hills have to offer.

“Not my problem,” Dáin replies stubbornly, proudly bearded chin held high, and with a resigned sigh Hanar turns to negotiate with Nordri.

(In this, at least, he shows his Lord no disrespect by averting his attention.)

“Hámundur for Ari,” the scarred dwarf then offers, old eyes twinkling with sudden hope and a certain amount of greed.

Grinning, Gimli remembers that he had to give up Ari not too long before.

Ahh, there is no quarrel more satisfying than that for an army’s best! (Also, there is nothing like it to take one’s mind off the matters of the heart-)

…

“No way,” Nordri refuses indignantly, “Ari is mine!”

Said Ari, in the meantime, is locked in an intense discussion with a dwarf who might very well be Steinn (if Gimli is not mistaken) concerning the use of single-bit axes, obviously not even realizing that he is in the market once more. After the negotiations are over will be more than soon enough to find out which squad he has been allocated to – Gimli knows that from experience.

(Especially since the allocation might change quite a few times as the leaders haggle on.)

Legolas is still staring.

(Although not as openly as Hádhron. Apparently dwarvish quirks are less shocking for him than for most elves – one should hope so!)

“Well, you want Flosi, and you will only get him in exchange for Hámundur,” Hanar shrugs, seemingly unconcerned (or rather confident, Gimli thinks, still grinning), eyes alight with the prospect of winning Ari back for his squad.

Nordri’s angry scowl is truly impressive.

(It is nothing compared to what Gimli has seen Dwalin do in similar contentions, though. No one battles for his warriors like Fundin’s younger son.)

Elladan and Elrohir are exchanging glances, a truly worrying amount of excitement shining in their identical eyes.

Oh Mahal, _no_ …

Nordri, in the meantime, appears to have accepted that he will have to sacrifice Ari if he wants Flosi. For a few short moments he weighs the warriors’ abilities and their irreplaceability for certain positions in his shield wall; then his shoulders sag in defeat.

“Alright,” he relents. “Ari for Hámundur; and Hámundur and Hrappr for Flosi!”

Those negotiations, however, do not take as long as one might think – by far.

Let no one say that dwarves are not efficient.

“ _Ha!_ ,” Dáin exclaims in victory, having won Hrappr who he lost to Nordri but minutes before back; while Hanar simply billows in complacent glee.

Haldir, in the meantime, has lost his mask – for the first time ever since Gimli met him, the cool, controlled aloofness has melted from his fine features, leaving them bare and flabbergasted.

The marchwarden, Elladan and Faervel had assigned the available swordsmen within minutes – Elladan had separated the tightly knit shield-brothers from the others (with occasional and not necessarily helpful input from his brother), Faervel had guessed which of the remaining warriors were least suitable (or rather, ready) to fight with the dwarves, and Haldir had taken the rest.

Hádhron’s archers had been a set squad since even before leaving Rivendell and Lórien at their Lord and Lady’s command.

It had barely taken more than listing a few names, most swordsmen’s positions had been clear from the beginning.

Due to this, the contrast between the dwarves’ behaviour and their own is all the more obvious.

Still grinning – rather toothily, one might add – Gimli watches as the three quarrelers come to an end, conveniently emphasising how their own discussions took but a few scant minutes longer than the elves’.

Grinning in eager anticipation Dáin turns to look at the time-travellers once more, even as Nordri and Hanar quietly and efficiently organize the present dwarves into the agreed-upon squads. With an elegance so very different to the elves’ flowing motions, but present and obvious all the same, they easily fall into tight formations once more.

Those 200 designated to pair up with elves step forward with (more or less dangerous) grins on their faces, strong fingers securely wrapped around the hilts and grips of axes, swords and spears; polished shields glinting in the light of the sun still climbing the sky.

Their eyes set on those elves standing with Haldir they then pour into the neat rows of warriors, each one finding the elf who looks the easiest to annoy – Dáin’s instructions on that matter, Gimli suspects, were woefully clear.

Well.

The Lord of the Iron Hills easily convinced his men of fighting with elves – most likely by appealing to their ambition and pride, telling them to show the weed-eaters how things are done in dwarven halls… and to annoy the shit out of them while at it.

(The stray thought that he should keep Dáin and Thranduil from meeting hits Gimli. The Elvenking had entirely too much fun when grating on the nerves of Bard and Gandalf – they might get along worryingly well.)

“We better be ready,” Legolas then announces – eyes on the ascent of the sun – and both the dwarves’ irritation and the elves’ inconvenience melt away like a balls of snow cast into the fires of Mount Doom, only to be replaced by fierce determination.

No matter the bad blood that has been between the Firstborn and Mahal’s children for centuries; every single one of them is a warrior, and they all know what it as stake, letting training and discipline surpass their urge to annoy their allies.

Legolas then shares the last pieces of strategy with them, sharing in what ways elves and dwarves may profit from each other’s strength and swiftness in a fight (for if there are two people in Middle-Earth to know that best, it would be the two time-travellers).

The warriors relax into less tense stances then, listening surprisingly attentively, until-

…

Suddenly a sharp rumble rips through the cool morning air, the earth under their feet quaking, and Gimli’s heart drops as he feels the stone shake and quiver deep down.

Haldir’s face draws back into the blank mask within a moment’s notice, pale eyes suddenly shining with fierce anger and fear both as they settle on the source of the frightening sounds and movements.

“Wereworms,” he hisses, much as Gandalf must have back then – that first time – before whirling around, shouting one sharp, clear instruction:

“ _Tangado!_ ”

Prepare.

The elven warriors fly into the planned formations like parts of a machine clicking into place, as elegant and deadly as anything Gimli has ever seen.

Dáin waits for but a moment longer, throwing the time-traveller a short, questioning glance, before bellowing his own order:

“Ni naibîn, ifridî bekâr!”

The dwarves follow suit, two rows of shields rising into a wall broken only by spears waiting to be swallowed by the flesh of foes, even as in the distance the great beasts break through the ground – Gimli’s heart shuddering in in the same rhythm as the stone beneath, whose pain he can almost sense – and a horn sounds across the bare, desolated hills and valleys before Erebor.

An orc horn – the time-traveller would have recognized the sound anywhere.

On Ravenhill, a crude flag is hoisted.

He feels the anger rise, his blood beginning to boil and his muscles turning into iron and stone.

Out of the corners of his eyes he sees the foul beasts pour from the holes the wereworms left behind – his gaze, however, is locked on the wall of glinting armour before the Gates of the Lonely Mountain, and on the battlements.

The men of Dale, the elves of Mirkwood and the dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield’s company are ready.

So are the waiting warriors yet undiscovered by the enemy.

Dáin and Haldir find together, then, Lord of the Iron Hills and Marchwarden of the Golden Wood, and whatever animosity may have been between them in another life, another _future_ – here they are ready to fight together, for the sake of Erebor as well as all of Middle-Earth.

The sight is both most unusual and most welcome indeed.

Yet Gimli’s grim eyes instead settle once more on the mass of dark, deformed bodies still pouring out of the holes left in the ground and rushing towards the waiting army.

Legolas falls into place next to him, and – the pair of leaders next to them – they grip their weapons tightly and begin walking towards the battlefield. Slowly, yet… but already unstoppable.

“There is plenty for the both of us,” he offers his friend with a dark, toothy grin, and the elf replies in turn.

“May the best dwarf win!”

Gimli feels every single blister on his skin burn where his fingers and palms are curled around the hilt of his trusted labrys, he feels his heart bleed with the agony the wereworms brought upon the stone beneath them, his own pain from the conversation with Legolas still weighing heavily – yet none of that matters when long, _long_ minutes later yet another horn sounds, this one so very familiar to his ears, and with him elves and dwarves alike fall into faster steps, before breaking into a run.

Erebor is calling upon them for help, and they shall answer.

The shield wall carries over hill and valley towards the battle, 200 dwarves moving in tandem, and behind them a battalion of elven archers nocks the first arrows, ready to be shot as soon as their foes come into range.

They are, however, not what might have scared even Azog in that moment – no.

400 pairs of both elven and dwarven warriors come rushing towards the enemy army who was promised an easy victory, the ground now shaking with the force of heavy and light boots alike hitting it in a dangerous rhythm promising death to any who stand in the way of the approaching army, drowning all of Azog’s plans to be the one to attack on two fronts with this single unstoppable advance.

What perhaps shocks orcs and goblins the most, though, is not the amount of warriors coming to take their lives – it is the sight of two pairs, made up of a blond elf and a furious dwarf each, at the head of the advancing battaillon.

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!” Gimli roars, his own war cry soon joined by Dáin’s:

“’Urdel! Azbad! Akrâzul marâd!“

To the Mountain, the King and the glorious Dead!

Two brighter voices then rise in their own cry, “ _Gurth gothrimlye!_ ”, Death to our foes!, and a thousand voices behind them join in – only to be joined by both deep and bright voices coming from the mountain sharing in their fury.

For a moment, time seems to stop.

Then-

They have reached the orcs and battle is upon them.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I did mention that I suck at tactics and strategies... right? I hope this makes at least some sense.  
> Also, I really struggled with the vocabulary for this chapter. All this allocating and the squads/troops and empocketing the enemy - please don't be too mad/disappointed if those weren't the right words. English classes never taught us those :p
> 
> (Also, please don't ask me why the dwarves saw the elves from miles away, armour glinting in the sun as it was, but the orcs never spotted the elves and dwarves waiting with Legolas and Gimli - let's call it poetic licence, alright?)
> 
> ...the Sindarin and Khuzdul I found at various online sources, some of it I put together myself. Please don't go and revise it! ^^


	32. Flickering fires leaped up and black rock-shadows danced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **32\. Flickering fires leaped up and black rock-shadows danced**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 12: Inside Information_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> ...or: The Battle, Part I
> 
> So. I should probably leave a **warning** here:  
>  I focussed all my creativity on finding different ways to kill your enemy in a battle - this chapter accordingly **gory**... you were warned ;)
> 
> Also, I had lots of problems making the sentences fit togetehr for this one :/
> 
> Well - hope you still like it ^^

### 32\. Flickering fires leaped up and black rock-shadows danced

Fighting, Gimli sometimes thinks, is like dancing – in a way.

(Not that he is much of a dancer… or rather, would not have been much of a dancer, had Legolas not repeatedly forced him to join him in the wild, unbridled dances of the Firstborn. Feasts like Mereth Nuin Giliath, Penninor and Minien, or Cîw Laer Anor are not only a great excuse to consume unsettling amounts of Dorwinion wine – on nights like these the wide halls underneath Mirkwood are also filled with fast, pulsing elven music and more or less intoxicated dancers twisting and twirling, their minds with the stars above.

That Gimli has countered the elves’ wild but elegant, flowing motions with heavy, rhythmic dwarven stomps and movements even more sensual and explicit than Legolas’ as well as the best table dance Merry and Pippin taught him and so managed to offend many a Mirkwood elf’s sensibilities… might not need to be mentioned in the first place.)

There is no time to think in a battle, no time to remember the steps, no time to reconstruct a choreography – no time to consider the next move.

One partner leads, and the other follows – every reaction ingrained, every movement reflex.

Every attack or defence an answer to the opponent’s previous move.

The redhead, who has found himself locked in a duel with a rather well-trained orc – one of their leaders perhaps? – barely registers the way foes around him go down, felled by a golden blur. Only distantly he is aware of ever climbing numbers, flowing Sindarin reaching his ears – his concentration is wholly focussed on the deadly dance he is dancing with the vile creature before him, either attempting to take the lead and gain whatever advantage possible. Whoever dares to make the first advance will have that tiny headstart, but also offer the other a perfect opening.

As the orc is wielding a crude mace and he himself his trusted ax, their fight is nothing like one between two master swordsmen in a tournament might have been – blades kissing each other, barely touching as either waits for any tiny movement, any kind of mistake.

No, Gimli is not locked in a battle of nuances; but in one of focus no less.

A shattering blow comes hurling towards his helmeted head, and he barely manages to sidestep the attack – but immediately seizes his chance as he sees the gap in the creature’s defence, opened when the mace was brought into an arc too powerful to be stopped in time. Fast as a snake, iron-hard muscles drawing his own weapon unto an equally unstoppable movement, he strikes; aiming at the orc’s legs. The sharp bit of his beloved ax draws through a poorly armoured knee as if it were butter, and the spawn of Dol Guldur falls as its legs fail it, shins hitting the frozen and bloodied ground with a hiss of pain.

Now unable to properly defend itself against the dwarf it barely manages to parry the next two blows Gimli launches, and subsequently loses its head – literally. The dwarf brings his ax down upon its short neck too fast to be dodged or deflected and then whirls around, tearing the haft of his labrys upwards and between his strong torso and a rusty blade just in time.

“29,” he growls, teeth bared and split lip bleeding into his equally red beard as he relieves the owner of said sword of both its arms, leaving it to die on the frozen field.

In the same motion he turns and – with a sickening crunch – buries his own sharp (and perfectly cared for, thank you very much) weapon in the spine of the goblin attempting to attack Legolas from behind. Twitching, it falls to the ground as well, and Gimli leaves it too die in agony too, now incapable of using its legs as nerves suddenly fire into empty space. In a battle like this one, there is no time – no _need_ – to bother and finish them off. Those who are unable to even attempt another blow at him or his can be taken care off afterwards, should they still live then.

With a swift blow across he takes off the skullcap – and part of the brain – of number 31, cuts 32 clean in half, sloppily guts 33 (that will be another slow death in coming) and drives 34 backwards into Legolas’ waiting blades, where it manages to impale itself on two gleaming daggers unerringly finding lung and kidney.

(And anyway, that one ought to count for both of them!)

Sharing a quick, bloody and rather dangerous grin that is more dwarf than elf on either of their faces with his friend, who is slicing through a goblin like a starving hobbit through a meat pie, Gimli takes his labrys apart once more and then throws himself into the middle of a bulk of wargs, all stinking fur and snarling teeth.

Whirling around, arms stretched out and axes held in extension of his limbs, he easily keeps them at an acceptable distance and at the same time relieves some of rather vital body parts when they are stupid enough to venture too close after all. Thus numbers 35 to 41 all lose at least one limb each, some even the head, and 42 – an orc atop one of the bloodthirsty mounts – has its eyeballs gouged out by the hilt of Gimli’s axes. A hit with the blunt side then drives a deformed nasal bone into the creature’s brain and it dies after twitching a few last times, what used to be darkly glinting eyes only two bloody pits now.

Having taken care of the wargs for the time being – those not felled by his axes having arrows lodged in various vital organs, and he does not need to take a closer look at them to know which bow they were fired from – the time-traveller then finds himself free to take a short look around, attempting to find any who might be in need of assistance.

It is hard to make any sense of the whirling bodies and flashing blades between all the blood and gore and death. Armours and shields of both fallen and fighting are reflecting the blazing light of the sun still climbing the sky, blinding him and making it even harder to pick apart the many sensations and impressions flowing together. (At least there is little snow left, most of it molten by heavy boots and warm blood soaking the ground, to add to the dazzling.) Gimli, however, has fought a seemingly hopeless battle in the dead of night, with little to no light and rain so heavy the warriors’ sight had been even more restricted. It had been way harder then to make sense of what had been going on around him (although he has to admit that his keen dwarven night vision had certainly given him an advantage over the men), therefore he thanks Mahal for the presence of the sun and lets his sharp eyes adapt.

Quickly he spots Dáin, who is a roaring, whirling, _deadly_ mass of flashing steel and flying braids; and Haldir… who has been separated from his partner.

Orcs and goblins may be far from clever, but they were created to do battle (and act as arrow fodder) for the Black Foe. One of the brighter specimens must have realized that this particular (if unusual) pair is the one coordinating the brutally efficient forces that slammed into them not too long ago – and a fine job they are doing indeed, both experienced commanders holding their men together in all that chaos and unerringly decimating the number of foes in the process.

Now, however, they are rather restricted in their manoeuvrability – separated as they are.

Apparently the orcs managed to separate them after a number of failed attempts, which is no problem for Dáin, who is still spinning like a whirligig. Few of the vile creatures dare draw closer in fear of being hit and sliced open. Also, Hallvadur comes charging at those attacking his master just now, simply smashing into everything in his way and then stomping right over it. Those that end up underneath his hooves never rise again.

Yes, Dáin is certainly able to take care of himself.

So is Haldir – or rather, he would be, in any other battle where he is not the sole centre of attention of three dozen orcs, coming from all sides at the same time. Unlike his dwarven partner he knows no moves that allow him to keep them _all_ at bay. (Nor does he have the help of a ridiculously oversized pet.)

Knowing that Legolas will find him Gimli, having realized the marchwarden’s predicament after barely more than one glance, raises his voice once more in a dreadful roar and his ax in a promise of death.

“Khazad aî-menu,” he booms, and charges.

He is not going to see Haldir fall, not _again_.

The time-traveller comes at the creatures surrounding the marchwarden like an avalanche, unstoppable and roaring and lethal.

The moment the blonde’s back is protected, the orcs behind him felled by a red-haired nightmare come true, the elf’s own blade flashes once more and joins Gimli’s ax in its bloody dance. Delicate elven steel and heavy dwarven iron, both as sharp and deadly as can be, sing a joined, brutal song then; and soon Haldir is in control of the situation once more.

“ _I shall aid you in fighting your way back to Dáin_ ,” Gimli calls, deep voice rising to drown out the cruel sounds of battle around them and words as flowery as ever when spoken in Sindarin, “ _it is essential you stay together!_ ”

Haldir, a warrior with centuries worth of experience and well aware of all tactical implications, does not protest at this clear prioritizing.

(The two time-travellers, he must have decided, ought to be able to take care of themselves.)

“ _What of Legolas?_ ”

Gimli’s sharp eyes easily find the golden hurricane, immediately drawn to his whirling figure by the bond between them. It makes the elf shine to him like a single torch in a hall filled with darkness, wreaking havoc among the orcs and goblins as he is.

Legolas’ eyes, deep blue seas that catch his own even across a battlefield, are alight with grim satisfaction as he buries one of his long knives in the torso of a deformed goblin, with deadly precision hitting between two ribs and piercing clear through the lungs without ever touching the bones.

(A similar attack from the dwarf would have cut through the sternum, or pulverized the whole ribcage.)

The elf nods in answer to the unasked question, whirls around, and leaves a deep (and perfectly horizontal) gash in a crooked neck, blood gushing like a river from where a larynx used to be.

Satisfied, Gimli returns his attention to Haldir and the goblins around them, the exchange having taken but moments.

“ _He shall fight his way through to Dáin as well, and re-join me there_.”

There is little need for titles in a situation such as this one.

Haldir signals his acceptance with a sharp incline of his fair head even as he cuts a crippled leg right off the associated hip, the unarmoured goblin’s skin and thigh bone no match for his sharp blade.

The ultimate test, Legolas once told him, to see whether a sword is sharp enough is to hold it into a river, and if a leaf that comes floating and hits the edge is cut clean in half the smith may sell it in the fine knowledge that his ware is nought but the best.

It should be no surprise, then, that the marchwarden’s weapon slices through both flesh and bone as if they were butter; blade flashing and ready to feast on another’s body when it comes out at the other side, no slower than it had been when it had first touched the thigh.

Gimli, who falls into a shared rhythm with the blonde easily enough – Haldir may not be Legolas, but his swift movements, light steps and lightning-fast strikes are certainly familiar – fights with two single-bit axes once more, well aware that (quite unlike his own one) this elf is _not_ used to adapting to a heavy dwarven warrior’s movements.

Haldir, however, makes an effort to adapt his own style to the dwarf’s as good he can, and under their combined efforts all foes still separating them from the Lord of the Iron Hills soon fall, clearing a bloody path for the unusual pair and soon they burst through the circle of orcs and goblins surrounding Dáin and his boar.

Thorin’s cousin is still fighting with the deadly mania of an angry dwarf who has always had entirely too much fun fighting and a way with killing any who dare attack him, his damn pet adding his own fury to the warrior’s and his victims to his master’s count.

Having broken the tight, organized (but rather unsuccessful) attack on the Lord of the Iron Hills Gimli then abandons Haldir’s side, leaving him to return to his designated partner.

The moment the marchwarden flows into place at the dwarf’s back once more Dáin offers him a toothy grin (one that quite resembles Gimli’s own) and changes his fighting style mid-swing, throwing himself at his enemies again instead of taking care to keep them at a distance.

(Gimli tries his best to be surprised when Hallvadur abandons his master in the same moment, coming to have the time-traveller’s back instead, but – really – few things still surprise him when it comes to that cursed beast.)

Shaking his head, but figuring that if he managed to fight side by side with an elf when his hatred for that race – and especially the particular individual at his side – had still been blazing he ought to be able to fight side by side with a far too intelligent boar as well, he quickly takes to driving any orcs and goblins he does not kill or at least incapacitate at first strike into the raging beast’s path, and finishing off those few that survive the experience.

Considering how wary he is of Dáin’s oversized pet they work together extraordinarily well…

Legolas reaches them but minutes later.

And, _of course_ , he cannot help but do so in a memorable way once more.

Elegantly dodging the wildly swinging mace of a huge orc he clutches at the head of the weapon as soon as it has whirled past his own, and lets the momentum fling him through the air, towards where Hallvadur is still raging. Securing his knives in their sheaths mid-flip he draws his bow the moment he easily lands on the huge beast’s back – the boar barely flinches – and has an arrow nocked but a moment later.

For another few short, endless seconds his bright eyes dance across the many foes surrounding them, finding the targets best suited-

Then arrows come flying as fast as they may be fired, each one unerringly hitting another of their foes; and more than half even take out two creatures standing close together at once.

Those few seconds were well-spent.

Legolas then elegantly jumps off Hallvadur’s back, flowing into position next to Gimli like a river following the only path it has ever taken, in a bed it has carved for itself, and-

“Are you leaving now or what?” Dáin hollers, booming voice easily drowning out the clashing of steel and the terrible cries of the dying both, even as he crashes his thick skull into that of a goblin before taking off its head with a single well-aimed strike.

(Gimli spots a rather obivious, skull-shaped dent in the dead creature’s forehead, and quickly decides not to dwell on it.)

“Aye!” Legolas shouts back – the answer so very dwarvish it makes Gimli’s heart stumble for a moment – and kicks a goblin right into the blade of the redhead’s ax. “It is time.”

“Good luck, then,” Haldir wishes them, cool voice easily rising over the fray as much as Dáin’s (although he certainly does not _holler_ ), before whipping around and swiftly bringing his blade between another sword and his partner’s helmeted head. The strike would have been barely more than an annoyance to the dwarf, trusted armour securely in place – however, as a master swordsman the marchwarden easily takes the brunt off the blow with his own blade, letting the other sword glide along the fuller of his and fall against the cross-guard even as the point of his own weapon hurtles right into the creature’s head as he raises the hilt and his hands spring forward until his arms are outstretched.

“You better survive this – I still need your help in making Thorin see sense!” Dáin yells, face split by a bloodthirsty grin and ax buried in a mess of flesh, guts and blood.

Fondly shaking his head Gimli shouts back “Seeing as you will need all the help you can get we will certainly try our best!”, already turning towards Erebor and forgoing the old strategy of _killing as many as possible_ in favour of _clearing a way to the mountain_.

“It will be your fault, then, if I do not get my courtship!” Dáin shouts a last answer.

Then too many orcs and goblins are between them.

Taking a short look around Gimli sees the glorious shield-wall shine in the sun, and arrows coming from behind it at sharp, precise intervals following Hádhron’s orders. (And no matter how much the time-traveller may detest the redhead, there is nothing scornful to be said about his skills in battle.) Most every arrow hits true, and the lives of those dwarves and elves fighting in pairs and driving the enemy army ever towards the mountain are saved more than once.

Goblins and orcs keep surging against both the shield-wall and the barred gates of Erebor like waves breaking against cliffs, and much like water the vile creatures are easily repelled before dying easy victims to the archers in the battlements and behind the wall.

Risking another glance behind Gimli spots the current location of Haldir and Dáin, both wiry red and silky blond braids whirling as the foes around the fall prey to both elven precision and dwarven fury as the pair begins to fall into a shared rhythm more and more.

(That was a stroke of genius, when the Lord of the Iron Hills chose to pair up with the marchwarden.)

One last glance behind, one more ahead – then everything else ceases to matter as Legolas and he dance once again, surrounded by foes on all sides but at the same time safer than ever.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m both a dancer and swordfighter, and I never managed to understand why people had to compare those two sports... and now it happened to me, too. Well. At least I think I made it sound logical. At least it did in my head xp
> 
> And that story about the sword in the river, and the leaf being cut in half - was what my trainer told me.  
> He also said that, at some point, they bought a whole pig and did what those from our club who have sharp swords call - crudely translated - "cut-testing", and the swords went right through the bones.
> 
> Also, I couldn't help but let Legolas have a scene :p  
> And I don't just suck at tactics, but also at Sindarin xD  
> As for Haldir's sword: To make the move I tried to describe possible his sword would have needed a cross-guard...
> 
> Well. I hope you liked the battle ^^


	33. A choice between fire and death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **33\. A choice between fire and death**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 3: The Ring Goes South_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> ...or: The Battle, Part II
> 
> Have fun ;)

### 33\. A choice between fire and death

There is nothing like fighting side by side with Legolas.

Much as Gimli may loathe what battles do to those you love, and were a happier dwarf if Middle-Earth never once again saw a war – rarely does he feel as alive as when he and the elf are caught in the midst of orcs, goblins or uruks, fighting for their own lives as much as for everyone else. (They do tend to end up in fateful battles, after all.)

They complement each other perfectly.

Where Legolas may be swept away by the brute force of a strength-wise superior opponent Gimli stands strong, feet deeply rooted in the ground like the Mountain herself; and where Gimli might be felled by a blow too fast to be dodged or parried Legolas flies to his aid and his own blade flows to intercept the incoming one fast and unstoppable like the River Running.

The place where their souls almost touch – bound together by the fierce, fiery love of a dwarf who has both lost and freely given his heart once and forever – always reveals his dear friend’s current location to him, and in the glittering light of the shining sun the elf’s hair, though matted by sweat and blood, looks like spun gold more than ever.

They are alone now, no longer close enough for any of the others to come to their aid should it be necessary, and even out of the archers’ reach.

In any other battle there would have been some of theirs close by, frontlines of both armies blurring and dissolving into chaos. In this new Battle of Five Armies, however, the strategy involves closely kept ranks, and enclosing the enemy between the two armies. This is, after all, the reason for the massacre the archers are causing, able to fire arrow after arrow into the bulk of orcs, goblins and wargs without ever having to worry about hitting one of theirs.

(Their foes, Gimli thinks in a short moment of gruesome satisfaction, are rounded up like cattle-)

The strategy turns out to be terribly, cruelly effective, which shows in both the ever-rising number of bodies beginning to pile before the Mountain, and the never-ending advance of the shield-wall. Behind them, no living foes remain – though where they have marched the ground is littered with corpses, both heavy dwarven boots and light elven feel having trod them like a bloody cobbled path.

Yet… there is also a clear disadvantage to said strategy.

In any other battle – in any other battle Legolas and Gimli would not have been so far from all their allies. In any other battle the two time-travellers would not have captured the sole attention of a sheer countless number of foes. In any other battle-

“…82, 83, 84,” Legolas almost sings as he dances around the dwarf, deadly blades taking the lives of all who make the mistake to stand in his way.

Those who survive this assault – whether by luck or, rarely, skill – then run straight into Gimli’s hungry ax. Bellowing his own ever-rising score to add to the elf’s the redhead meets his friend step for step, twirl for twirl, drop for drop. There is no way not to be swept away into Legolas’ bloody dance, the wounded’s cries their music and the clashing of blades their rhythm. (And there is no dance they dance so well as battle, is there?)

And although by now Gimli could swear he can hear the pained cries of every falling man, elf and dwarf; though he feels as if there is a weight choking his heart, growing heavier with every life he takes- … as if he could count every blow he has launched by the ache in his strong arms, every passed second by his own wounds, his thirst and his exhaustion-

Despite all this, at the same time his blood is rushing through his veins, nerves set on fire by fear and fatigue and _excitement_ , and his sharp eyes are always searching, eager to find new foes.

Legolas, always by his side, is thrumming with _life_ as well, all elegant and beautiful and deadly, and Gimli lets any dark thoughts evaporate, his concentration solely on the battle and his One, shining more brightly than ever.

The elf parries two blows with both his daggers at the same time, one coming from either side, and as he sweeps one goblin’s feet out from underneath its stunted body with a single fluid motion the blunt side of Gimli’s labrys comes crashing into the side of the second attacker’s skull. It breaks with a sickening _crunch_ , part of the jawbone and some teeth being pulverized, and the dwarf whirls around. The momentum allows him to thrust the hilt of his ax into a gaping maw (and farther in, tearing part of the windpipe), before hurling the bit into the deformed head of yet another orc waiting right behind the first one in the same motion.

Legolas, too, has long taken care of his victim, its head no longer attached to the ugly body, and now stands with his flashing knives waiting.

Gimli understands immediately, no words necessary, and raises his leg, kicking the goblin in front of him straight into the elf’s hungry blades with the sheer force of it, before slicing right through an orcs ribcage and into its lungs.

As the pathetic creature tries to take its last desperate breaths he surges forward and right into the midst of a hungry pack of goblins awaiting him with bloodthirsty maces and hammers. His trusted chainmail, as always, takes the brunt off any attacks that make it through; and what bruises he still receives can hardly be worse than what he took home from the Battle of the Hornburg. It is moves like this one (albeit slightly suicidal) that allow them to slowly but surely approach the Mountain; a bloody path hewn by brutal force and quick blades.

There is little time to think, for another foe is ever attacking, another blade always needed to be dodged, and-

Suddenly, when Gimli raises his ax once more, he finds himself staring right into a sharp arrowhead.

The goblin before him crosses its eyes in an attempt to make out just _what_ is protruding from its head, before falling face-first to the bloodied ground.

The dwarf easily side-steps the body, eyes following what must have been the path of the arrow, and-

It is only when he stares right at Maethon’s beautiful, ageless face that he understands.

“ _We are within reach of your father’s archers!_ ” he gasps, for by now the struggle of fighting their way through alone has certainly taken its toll, and Legolas whoops with relief.

“ _Not much farther_ ,” the elf pants then, “I can see Gandalf’s pointed hat!”

Gandalf!

Renewing his efforts Gimli takes a short run and then literally crashes through the packs and throngs in his way, following the direction Legolas has indicated. One strike, two blows, and then-

The wizard certainly is a sight for sore eyes, surrounded by orcs and goblins, both flashing blade and glowing staff taking out foes wherever they hit.

“Good,” he gasps, “you made it! The goats are prepared, Thorin is already awaiting you!”

With that he turns right around and begins to fight his way back to the Mountain.

Understanding what he is doing immediately Gimli quickly moves to help him and together they – quite literally – cut a path through the mass of bloodthirsty bodies before them.

The archers on the battlements, having received orders to help them, then begin to aid in their advance, arrows suddenly flying, and as the elves and men at the front lines are left to their own devices for a short time orcs and goblins around the trio fall faster than they could ever hope to attack them.

(Maethon and Agartôr, who are coordinating the forces stationed on the battlements, are nothing if not excellent at what they do.)

Gandalf then quickly leads them down the unexpectedly cleared path and towards where the Company is staying closely together, wreaking havoc among the orcs and goblins still surging against the Mountain like waves, time and again.

“Gimli!” Glóin bellows the moment he sees his son, relief clear in his voice.

Dwalin’s head whips around.

“Finally!” he barks, face split by a huge, bloodied grin. (He must have taken a blow to his bald head at some point – or rather, a tiny cut. Head wounds do, after all, tend to bleed profusely; and his own has left barely more than a dark red trickle down the side of his face, already dried.) “Bofur is waiting with the goats. The boys are already there, Thorin has left to get the prissy elf” – at this description of his father Legolas snorts with amusement – “and I was told to stay and collect you. Let’s go!”

Out of the corner of his eyes Gimli, who follows after the tattooed warrior, spots Tauriel fighting side by side with Nori, the sly dwarf relying on a style more suited for an elf than a dwarf more often than not, and Bifur making sure that Bain (who must have snuck out of the Mountain at some point) is as safe as possible. Bard and Balin make a dangerous pair, all flashing blades and whirling hair; Bilbo is standing back to back with Bombur – face lit up by the eery blue glow of Sting – and the two of them are taking care of each other; while Dori is currently bashing in an orc’s face because it dared get too close to one of the young men (more of a boy, really) who chose to fight – with his bare hands. (There is little face to be recognized now, Dori’s legendary strength having left behind but a bloody mess.)

Dwalin, in the meantime, lets none of this distract him – not even Ori jumping right onto the back of a sword-wielding orc with a loud, enraged cry. The crude blade that had been but inches from the head of an elf turning her back barely misses and the dark-haired woman whips around, taking care of the creature – as well as the goblin sneaking up on the young dwarf who saved her life, while at it. Undeterred, Dwalin leads the two time-travellers through the tightly kept ranks of Bard’s men and the Mirkwood elves not stationed upon the battlements who have set up an incredibly efficient rotation, bringing any wounded or exhausted into the safety of the Mountain and filling their positions with rested warriors.

(Gandalf must have left them at some point, and thrown himself into the fray once more – although Gimli could not tell when.)

Behind the Gate Bofur is already waiting, locked in a heated discussion with the princes concerning their riding abilities even as he desperately attempts to keep seven rather feral mountain goats under control.

With an amused chuckle Legolas darts forward to help him, soft Quenya flowing from his lips and calming the animals like a warm, comforting blanket settling down onto the hall. The sounds of the battle coming from outside the Mountain certainly seem less gruelling now, even to Gimli’s battle-hardened ears, and Bofur huffs a sigh of relief.

“Thank Mahal!” he wheezes, “Oh, and thank ye of course – they’re a handful, given how long it must’ve been since they saw a dwarf, maybe never? Also, all the noise is making ‘em nervous as well. Pity, really – they used ta have nerves of steel.”

“And they will again,” a deep, rumbling voice promises, and everyone present whips around only to see Thorin and Thranduil finally arrive. “With the proper care and training…”

“Of course,” Bofur agrees, grinning sheepishly. “Wouldn’t wanna make ye think I thought ye couldn’t do it-”

“Bofur!” Thorin interrupts him, rolling his eyes even as he lifts a hand to wipe a few stray blood splatters from his bristly cheeks. “Will you finally stop treating me differently, simply because I have more of a Kingdom to call myself King of now than I did during the journey here?”

(He conveniently ignores Thranduil’s laughter, the elf not even bothering to disguise it as a cough.)

Both kings have clearly been out in the midst of the fighting as well, hair sweaty and armour covered in dark blood. They appear to be a little exhausted too, elven blades left in their sheathes for the time being-

“Uhhm- …” Bofur blushes, and nods fiercely. “Sure thing!” he promises, before returning his attention to the almost worryingly calm goats. “Now’re ye getting’ goin’ or what??”

“We are,” Thorin chuckles, before turning to face those he has chosen to take with him. “Are all of you well? No wounds that need attention, no exhaustion, no second thoughts?”

The princes erupt into scandalized exclamations, and Dwalin bristles with indignation.

Gimli, however, simply smiles.

He remembers one particular evening as if it had been but the day before – the Fellowship sitting around a tiny, smokeless fire (built with Aragorn’s best ranger skills), huddling together against the cold and the darkness both. Despite the heavy burden he had been carrying around his neck Frodo’s soft eyes had been alight with excitement as he had recounted the tale his uncle Bilbo must have told him so often.

_He took his best warriors – to cut the head off the snake!_

It had made Gimli shiver back then… for him, after all, the tale had been so much more than a story about a dangerous adventure to tell curious fauntlings after a long day. For him – this had been the epic narration of how a group so small but so courageous had set out to reclaim their ancestral home from a dragon that had killed so many of their people with but one breath of fire before, and the one tiny hobbit who had made it all possible. For him, this was part of the history of Durin’s folk.

The redhead had, of course, heard that story more often than he could have counted already. Yet, to finally be told the events from Bilbo’s point of view, the single person who had risked – and sacrificed – so much to help a bunch of ragged dwarves…

To be one of Thorin’s _best warriors_ now-

…

“We are ready,” Legolas calmly assures the King under the Mountain, a small (enticing, always enticing) smile on his lips as well. “We are with you wherever you may lead us.”

After a short moment of shock Thorin shakes his head – a fond gesture, and clearly aimed at Thranduil. (A rather worrying development indeed…)

“Who would have thought that day would ever come,” he grins cheekily, before stepping forward and elegantly climbing atop the back of a goat with a single fluid motion.

For a moment everyone simply stares, eyes wide.

“But how did you _do_ that??” Fíli then complains, even as he selects a goat form himself and moves to attempt mounting it (rather unsuccessfully, one might add).

“There are no stirrups, not even a saddle!” Kíli – who is already making a fool of himself as well – agrees, voice no less offended than his brother’s.

To Gimli – to Gimli, all that matters little.

Across the backs of two goats Legolas’ deep blue eyes are drilling into his own, _daring_ him to do it better.

Someplace close to his heart something suddenly _snaps_ , whatever insecurities may have been there turning into hard iron and cold stone. Oh, he is going to _show the elf_ -

The animal before him stands stock still (quite unlike Arod), head hanging low and eyes lidded still with the calm and comfort of the elf’s earlier words. Gauging the height and remembering his many failed attempts to mount the Rohirrim’s horse – climbing atop Arod had been a challenge every single time – he takes a deep breath, reaches out to steady his hands on the beast’s back and the muscles in his strong thighs tense, preparing. Then he jumps and hauls his body onto the goat’s, drawing one leg across to the other side-

…

“Unfair!” Kíli almost howls when Gimli straightens, rolling his broad shoulders and making sure his trusted ay is strapped securely to his back. His dark eyes are alight with deep, gloating satisfaction when they meet the elf’s.

“Hmph!”

With one elegant, flowing motion Legolas leaps onto his own goat’s back, happily ignoring his father’s gleeful laughter.

(Thranduil, of course, draws amusement from his son’s defeat.)

Rolling his eyes once more, Thorin sighs.

“We have a battle to win,” he reminds them sternly, and without needing to be prompted further Bofur swallows down his last few chuckles and rushes forward to help first Fíli, then Kíli to mount. (Dwalin, apparently, managed to do so without being aided.)

“Good luck!” he wishes hem, the sentiment as heartfelt as when he had told Bilbo farewell before their involuntary and rather painful visit to Goblin Town. He then whips around, giving Thorin’s mount an almighty, resounding _smack_ ; and the goat springs forward – right out of the Mountain, and towards Ravenhill. As all other mounts follow Gimli is barely aware of anything but his desperate attempts to hold onto whatever body parts appear save as the seven animals shoot down a small path behind the tightly kept ranks if their warriors.

They have managed to rush up part of the hill housing the rookery already when Thorin finally regains control of his mount, and is able to lead them up what he remembers to be the best path.

There will be no splitting up this time.

Reaching a plateau the King under the Mountain then dismounts, and motions for his _best warriors_ to do the same.

As the goats disappear off into the fog, only too happy to be left to their own devices again, Gimli draws his ax and prepares to fight once more. The short respite has cured him from the worst fatigue, and though his arms still ache with the strain of having wielded the heavy weapon for so long a time already, he is more than ready to fight again.

Realizing that most others are still occupied with drawing their weapons and adjusting pieces of armour he then risks a glance down towards where the battle is still raging.

From up here the sight certainly is glorious, the height and distance muffling all the cruel details and devouring both the clashing of weapons and the cries of the dying.

The distance between where the troops from Mirkwood, Lothlorien and the Iron Hills had met the enemy army, and where the shield wall is located now is plainly, cruelly visible in the long pitch of bodies and corpses strewn across the bloodied ground.

“Incredible,” Legolas murmurs next to him and Gimli whips around, only to find his friend’s beautiful eyes locked on the battlefield as well. “Look at all that… at all those _live_ warriors down there who had long perished at that point last time. We did good, Gimli – we did good!”

“We did,” the dwarf rumbles in agreement, heart growing light with the realization, before giving his friend a treacherously soft smile. “ _And now it is time to do even better._ ”

“It is!” the blonde beams, ageless face lit up by his joy. (And he does, after all, carry so many dark memories about the disaster this battle had been the last time. Gimli is more than happy to see him so relieved.)

For a few moments they stand in pleasant, companionable silence-

“It is time!” … The statement is more of a growl than anything else, sending a shiver down the dwarf’s spine, and just like that the softness of the moment is broken.

Their weapons hungry to draw blood once more the two time-travellers turn around to face their companions again.

“We do not split up!” Gimli reminds the present dwarves sharply, deep voice edged with the warning, and both Thorin and Dwalin nod in agreement.

“Least of all you, boys!” the King warns his nephews who roll their eyes, but nod as well, before turning to look around.

“Well – where are they??”

It is eerily silent around them, and there is not one orc to be seen.

For many, terribly long, moments they wait, always ready-

“What do we do?” Dwalin finally asks. “Go look for him, or wait until he comes crawling out?”

“I suggest we wait,” Thranduil proposes. “In this open terrain we are at an advantage, especially since we have archers with us. Also, here we are not incapacitated by the fog.”

“I would rather go in,” Fíli disagrees. “What advantage we have here we should also have in the ruins, since both Thorin and Dwalin ought to know them well.” With a skewed, pointed look he reminds the two warriors of the many hours they must have spent here, playing, before the dragon came – according to Dis, at least.

“He is right,” Legolas accepts. “If you shield us from the orcs both Prince Kíli and me should be skilled enough to use our bows even in these constricted conditions, and maybe take out many before they can draw too close, thus save your strength for Azog. Especially if they happen to have archers as well it will be essential that we take them out. Also, I would rather not end up on the frozen lake again… And, what is more: We came here much sooner than you did last time, but at some point the army from Gundabad _is_ bound to arrive! By then, we need to have taken care of Azog and moved Hádhron’s squad up here. So, if you really know this building…”

“I agree,” Thorin consents after a short moment of consideration. “Alright – are you ready?”

In lieu of an answer the others fall into place behind him, effectively preventing any further discussions about the matter. Kíli takes the position right at his uncle’s back, and in front of Legolas (who is, after all, quite a lot taller). The right flank – closer to the wall – is Fíli’s (he tends to need a lot of space when fighting with both his twin swords), the left one covered by Gimli and Dwalin, and Thranduil brings up the rear. (He does have the best chances of hearing any who might try and sneak up on them.)

For a few short moments they all share smiles – as toothy and dangerous as they are excited about this wordless, effortless teamwork – then Thorin moves, and the other six follow.

Quietly and efficiently he leads them into the dark, looming ruins. Fine elven ears are his guide, and he easily finds his way through the rookery, onto the higher levels, towards the creature that killed his grandfather, and managed to take the lives of his sistersons before-

…

…

…

Gimli could not say what happened, what mistake they made.

All he knows is that, at some point, something went terribly wrong.

Tauriel came with the numbers, she _saw the army marching towards Erebor from Gundabad_ , reported back to them and mentioned nothing unusual- … but, of course, unlike Legolas she did not have the experience to compare it with, did she?

She cannot be at fault.

That Bolg’s orcs arrived much too soon – she could not have known.

Yet, at the same time, she missed informing them about how close the army had already been to the Mountain, had not given them the details thinking they already had them, not aware – not aware that Azog’s spawn had, apparently, changed his plans. After almost being killed by Legolas in Laketown, he must have done something differently than last time, left for the Mountain sooner, and they _had not been warned_ -

…

It is only now that Gimli realizes how much they relied on knowing what was going to happen.

Being blind now – is terrifying.

It means that, at some point, they _must have made a mistake_ -

They are currently stuck in the rookery, their tight formation having broken apart when the first unexpected wave of orcs had swept across them. Gimli is dimly aware of the epic fight taking place between Thorin, Fíli, Kíli and Azog, the King shielding his nephews bets he can. Whatever the outcome, it is sure to go down in history…

Dwalin and Thranduil, he has lost sight of – Legolas, however, he could not stand losing in the chaos. He has grown too accustomed to being at his side in any critical situation, conditions like Helm’s Deep or the battle at the Black Gate, where nothing had been certain, appearing so far away after all those weeks of being in control-

…

It had been such a luxury, knowing the details, and they had rested on their laurels.

Gimli desperately attempts to keep close to his elf, against the seemingly never-ending surges of Gundabad orcs trying their very best to separate them; and against Bolg who appears to have set his sight on killing Legolas after what happened in Esgaroth. (He may just be as obsessive as his father in that respect.)

Legolas, of course, would have easily been able to hold his own against Bolg – had Azog’s spawn not arrived with a sheer endless number of orcs instructed to concentrate solely on him.

Gimli is trying his very best to take out as many as he can before they ever reach his One, desperately pushing everything he has into staying with the elf who keeps climbing higher and higher, but it never seems to be enough; they may leave piles of corpses in their wake, yet still Bolg is slowly but surely tiring Legolas out and at some point they will reach the top of the rookery, with nowhere left to go, and Gimli is exhausted already, arms burning, and bleeding from a number of minor injuries-

Oh, they had grown so arrogant, had thought themselves _invincible_ , how very _stupid_ -

A short respite presents itself when Legolas takes a daring leap from the ruins and onto the jagged rocks surrounding them, managing to catch his breath for a short moment until Bolg follows him, the other orcs not as agile and trapped in the crumbling rookery now… together with Gimli, who cannot take that leap either.

With a loud, angry cry the dwarf foregoes all caution when he sees the orcs beginning to climb up to Legolas’ position from the ground below and instead jumps down and right into their bulk, spinning and whirling despite the fiery pain in his legs, his single-bit axes taking lives wherever they hit as he buys his friend the time to finally take out Bolg.

Legolas, it turns out, spends those expensive, exhausting seconds well and not long after his manoeuvre the lifeless body of Azog’s spawn tumbles down a cliff (followed by the head no longer attached to it) and the elf immediately comes flying to Gimli’s aid. He is, however, exhausted as well, and no longer as careful as he ought to be-

…

A sharp, piercing whistle echoes across the valleys around the Mountain, hot with lingering magic, and Legolas carelessly throws himself against a couple of huge orcs with his eyes dark and deep and swirling and his teeth bared in a dangerous grin, more feline than anything else-

It is a terribly long moment, endless and much too short at the same time.

Gimli glimpses so many details with one single, panicked glance around the plateau and down to the battlefield- … something dark pouring from the Mountain and into the bulk of orcs and goblins below, the almost black silhouettes of the mighty eagles finally winging their way across the bright sky, a huge bear rearing up and roaring on a landing a little farther down Ravenhill, Thorin burying Orcrist to the hilt in Azog’s chest and Fíli taking off his head the same moment Kíli’s arrow hits the left eye, Dwalin fighting back to back with Hádhron and a number of elves who apparently managed climb the hill, Thranduil’s eyes wide with shock and fear, the crude mace that comes rushing towards Legolas’ unprotected back-

…

Gimli had sworn to himself no to die in this battle, not to escape his heartache in such a coward way – but is there a better, more courageous death than dying to _save_ his heart?

For a few more moments time seems to keep stretching as he flings himself across the short distance with all the strength he has left, a pained cry tearing his chest apart-

Then the mace hits the side of his face with crushing force, and time returns to normal before darkness engulfs him.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...when I asked my dad for further ways to kill someone in a battle he suggested a _pinup orc_ \- meaning an orc that's kep upright against somewhere by arrows... but the _images_... :o


	34. Cold be hand and heart and bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **34\. Cold be hand and heart and bone**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 8: Fog on the Barrow-Downs_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> First of all, I'm terribly sorry for the delay. While I - somehow - managed to finish the chapter on Friday (the last few sentences I wrote on the bus, with the last pathetic few permille of battery charge), but I had no time to upload it. At all.  
> I'd hoped that I'd manage to do that yesterday, on the train from work to the scout camp, but... of course, the promised wireless didn't work. (It rarely does -.-)  
> Sorry... I did work my butt of to finish it on Friday :/
> 
> Anyway - here's the new chapter.  
> I hope you guys like it - it's time for some changes ;)

### 34\. Cold be hand and heart and bone

Dwarves, Legolas learned a long time ago, are incredibly loyal folk.

They would go to any lengths to protect those they love, and – quite literally – move mountains to make them happy. No one they care about will ever be hurt as long as they live to prevent it (or at least take bloody revenge afterwards), and they may strive their whole lives to atone for any grievous mistakes they made.

Thorin, for example, did not stop until he finally managed to win his home back from a dragon of all creatures, always carrying that ridiculous guilt of believing its loss in the first place to have been _his_ fault.

(That dwarves are absurd folk Legolas has known for even longer. Oh yes – absurd, headstrong, _idiotic_ -)

The tears are never-tiring in their attempt to overpower his iron will and finally spill.

Exhaustion washes through him once more even as he stubbornly fights back both the flood of despair pressing against his lids and Irmo’s beckoning arms, as stubbornly as any dwarf. Oh, he has changed so much, hasn’t he? Ever since those days and nights they spent under the Lady’s watchful eye and protection, long hours he remembers to have been both bright with the beauty of the Hidden Land and dark with the loss of Gandalf… Ever since he accepted Gimli as who he was – _is!_ – he has started to turn into someone else, no longer the same elf who grew up under the ever-darkening trees of Mirkwood.

The dwarf’s friendship changed him, and for the better he believes, in ways he would have never thought possible.

And now…

The stone is cold against his back.

Erebor can offer him little comfort, for all that she certainly tries her best. He is still an elf, though, no matter how often Gimli has called him dwarf-friend, and without the younger one’s presence to him the Mountain is but that – cold rock and stone. Once more his eyes travel across the blank wall quite without his cooperation, only to come to rest on the bland wooden door, like all those times before.

The door looks surprisingly sturdy considering it was locked in a mountain empty but for a dragon for decades, and if there are any cries of pain… then it serves to keep them in, and the sounds of the battle out. They have grown more distant over the last hour or so, and even his fine ears are barely able to pick them up now.

It is almost over, then…

Well. He guesses he will see who won soon enough.

But a few hours ago he would have been convinced that they could not lose, their strategy most definitely superior to whatever Azog could come up with on such a short notice. The situation on Ravenhill, however – taught him better. Even now he does not even need to close his eyes to see the image burnt into them, Gimli crumbling to the ground and all the _blood_ -

…

He can sense his father’s approach before even seeing him; his blazing, ancient soul brightening up the dark hallway the moment he steps around the corner.

To the younger elf, he shines like a torch in the darkness threatening to swallow him.

Quite without ever choosing to do so he twists around to face this source of light, turning to his father in his distress as if he were but an elfling again, begging to be comforted after a particularly frightening nightmare.

Thranduil’s old eyes are dark with both worry and understanding, and when he opens his arms in invitation Legolas all but flies towards him and flees into the safety of the King’s embrace. Long limbs wrapping around his father’s neck he then buries his face in the strong, armour-clad chest before him.

“Ada!” he gasps, throat closing and eyes threatening to spill over once again, “He- … _I_ \- …”

“Shh,” Thranduil soothes, ever so gently, and holds his distressed son as close as possible, strong hands caressing the long tresses of golden hair, matted and dulled by blood and sweat and desperation. Legolas can sense his father’s worry, but his compassion shines even brighter.

“He sacrificed himself for me, Ada, I-…”

“I know,” the older one whispers, shaken voice betraying both how fond he himself has grown of the dwarf, and how close he knows to have come to losing his beloved son. Gently he lowers himself down onto the hard stone floor, his back against the wall opposite from the door, and pulls his distraught child along and into his lap as if he were but half a century old again.

Legolas gladly accepts the offer of care and comfort, curling against his father’s strong chest and attempting to lock out the darkness and cold lapping against his soul – a threat and a promise both, as well as the certainty of what will happen should the one it is bound to not survive.

“Do you… have any news?” Thranduil carefully asks, fingers still combing through his son’s dull hair, and the low but warm voice drawing him away from the dark depths of fear for a moment.

“N-No,” Legolas breathes, shoulders shaking. “I- … Óin is there, and Ciril, but that is all I know.”

The best elven and the best dwarven healer this region has to offer with Elrond so far to the West, finally working together – but the price to be paid for this sudden union is too great, too terrible-

Legolas feels the tears rise once more, threatening to choke him if he does not let them fall, and he finally gives in… gives up the fight, for he has no strength left. There is but emptiness where his heart used to be, a dark void threatening to expand and swallow him whole.

If Gimli should not-

…

The thought that has been chasing him for the last few hours is too terrible.

He caves, and the tears spill, unstoppable – torrents flowing from his darkened eyes, making their paths down Thranduil’s bloodied, dirty armour. The Elvenking did not hold back in this fight, supporting the dwarves with everything he had to offer, and- … it like it has been _centuries_ since Legolas cried the last time. He has grown so proud, and never allowed himself this weakness. Not even when Gandalf had fallen, or when he had realized how hopeless his love for Gimli really was, and that the dwarf _would_ die in the end… Now, however, in the comforting safety of his father’s arms, he sobs openly – for the first time not caring about who might see it.

Tiny rivers make their way down the crests and valleys of the ornate chest plate, taking grime and blood along where they cross it.

Legolas clings to Thranduil’s strong shoulders (though not as strong as Gimli’s) and hides his face in the warm crook of his neck (though not as warm as Gimli’s) just above his armour. He might not be able to close his eyes, let the darkness surround him… yet, in his father’s gentle embrace the images assaulting him – though no less painful – are at least a little more bearable.

The moment will be burnt into his brain forever (which might actually last not all that long, should the healers fail), cruel images dancing across his vision and the pained cry ever ringing in his ears.

The sight- … had been terrible.

Legolas, caught in a fight with three huge orcs at once (one of them having lost its life but moments before) had whipped around upon hearing the blood-curdling scream, heart already stumbling with dark foreboding and breath caught in his throat. Never before had he heard such a sound torn from Gimli’s lips, and it could only mean the worst possibly kind of agony-

The first thing he had seen had been his father’s eyes, filled with shock and pain and _fear_. His own gaze had not lingered long enough to learn the reason for such strong emotions, though – it had travelled downward, towards where the pull at his heart – his _soul_ – had been unbearable-

Gimli had sunk to the ground but inches from his own feet, strong legs suddenly betraying him, ax fallen from his limp fingers. His face- … his beautiful, proud, expressive face but a bloody mess, the mace he must have taken to it red with his blood.

The wielder of said mace had only just been falling to the ground, gurgling in a last desperate attempt to breathe before falling silent. The dagger in its back Legolas had easily recognized as Prince Fíli’s-

…

He had crumbled to the ground without ever realizing, his arms wrapping around Gimli’s lifeless body even as an agonized cry had torn from his own lips as his heart had threatened to break apart upon the realization.

Gimli had not been close enough to him to have been hit by accident. There was but one other person the mace could have been meant for – his dwarf had thrown himself between the deadly blow and the elf.

(His cry, Legolas realizes now, had resounded _before_ the mace had hit true – Gimli had cried out in such terrible pain when he had seen the weapon threatening to take the life of his dear friend. Maybe-

…

_No_.

He cannot allow his foolish heart such hope, especially not now, with the other half of his soul in mortal danger-)

Dimly he had been aware of arrows flying over his head so fast they could not have been fired by but one person, presumable taking out the orcs he had not managed to kill already and all others daring to approach, and soon his father as well as King Thorin and the two princes had been rushing to their side.

The princes had been furious, throwing themselves at all foes stupid enough to come close, and Thorin had vanished around a corner.

Thranduil, in the meantime, had sunk to his knees next to his son, his eyes grim when he had asked – “Is he still alive?” – old hands ghosting over the mess of blood and bone, the ancient magic of their people already building in his veins.

Legolas’ fingers, by then covered in the beloved dwarf’s terribly red blood, had flown to the other side of Gimli’s neck – the one still whole – and desperately felt for a pulse-

“He lives!” he had panted, hope and fear and pain suddenly waging war inside his heart, and hurriedly pressed his fingers against the battlefield that had been the side of the dwarf’s head, in a desperate attempt to quell the blood flow. (Knowing how _agonizing_ that must have been, the pressure against the injury, and seeing the dwarf not even flinch, too lost in darkness- … had been further proof for the graveness of the situation, and pained his trembling heart even more.) Sharp instructions had been shouted across his head, then, his father telling Hádhron (Legolas had only realized his presence on Ravenhill upon hearing his name) to call for Ciril.

A deep, _commanding_ chant had then flown from the Elvenking’s mouth, the words and the magic dripping from his fingers entwining, the pleas and demands flowing together into the ancient healing chants of their people-

“ _Cuio Daro annin La minno Barthan thaim Nestathon angina…_ ”

The warmth behind Thranduil’s spell had wrapped itself around Legolas like a comforting blanket, almost making him forget the terrible situation as he had poured out his own love and magic in a desperate confession, joining his father’s attempts to save the beloved dwarf’s life.

King Thorin had returned then, followed by one of the goats – only Aulë would ever know how he had found and tamed it – and exchanged but a few gestures with the fellow King.

(Legolas had been too far gone then, to be shocked by that most worrying development.)

With a sharp nod of his golden head Thranduil had wrapped his arms around the injured dwarf, easily lifting him off the ground and atop the goat’s back. Finally understanding Legolas had followed, fingers never leaving Gimli’s neck, magic never stopping flowing, and wound his own arms around his beloved – holding him as securely as ever.

“ _Ciril will await you at the Gate_ ,” Thranduil had promised in a last attempt to comfort his distraught son, before whipping around with a cry full of so much pain and _anger_ that it had chilled all present to their bones. The Elvenking had then thrown himself against the Gundabad orcs still pouring down the faces and plateaus, fighting in a way Legolas had never seen before.

With a roar no less angry Thorin had followed, and together they had driven all orcs away from the animal with its precious load.

A desperate plea in Quenya had made the goat jump forward and towards the first cliff, and with the wounded dwarf in his arms Legolas had ridden back down, right into the Mountain, where Ciril and Óin had already waited, pulling Gimli from his arms-

…

He cannot even remember the ride now, could not say how he made it down the steep cliff without either of them falling off – all he knows is that Gimli is still in the chamber the two healers took him into, has been for hours, and that the battle must be over now. (Elladan and Elrohir arrived shortly before Thranduil, barely sparing their friend a glance before rushing in to help the two healers with whatever skills their father had taught them, but minutes later followed by Tauriel and one of the female elves from Lórien.)

“Ada, what- …” he gulps, attempting to swallow down the pathetic whine in his voice, “…what happened?”

Thranduil, fortunately, appears to understand his son’s question. “We won,” he lowly confirms what Legolas already suspected – considering that the Mountain has not yet been swamped by orcs and goblins. “You killed Bolg, I believe?” He waits for the tiny nod against his shoulder before continuing, “and King Thorin took out Azog with the help of his sistersons – but moments before- … you almost fell.”

The last few words he whispers into his son’s hair and Legolas immediately tightens his hold on his father, understanding how shaken he must be as well.

(Finally he realizes the reason for the pain and fear he had seen in his father’s eyes upon turning around after hearing Gimli’s terrible cry.)

“Maethon gave me the numbers before I came here. From what you told me, we saved many lives… comparably few from the Mirkwood troops were lost, and none that you knew personally I believe. However, I…” He hesitates for a moment, and new dread rises to fill the younger one’s heart. “…Caleth was hurt.”

Legolas’ head snaps up, red-rimmed eyes finding his father’s – so similar to his own.

_Hurt!_ , his heart cries out in hope, _Hurt – not killed!_

“…how?”

Thranduil sighs deeply, rests his head against his son’s.

“Do you remember the ride back down?”

After feeling his son shake his head against his armour he sighs again, lips dancing soothingly across the younger one’s hair. “I thought so. Otherwise you would have asked after her already… when you rode down, a bat attacked but moments before you had reached the safety of the Mountain. According to Maethon- … it was too close, came too suddenly for any of them to react. Caleth must have thrown herself off the battlements and at the creature, the two of them crashing against the barred Gate and tumbling down to the ground where apparently either desperately tried to gain the upper hand – their position making it impossible for the archers to help her. She succeeded at killing it with her long knife, but took quite a few hits as well, and the fall- … She will live,” he hurries to reassure Legolas when the younger one raises his head again in dismay, staring at him with wide blue eyes. “However, she hurt her shoulder in a way that may make it impossible for her to ever use a bow again…”

With an agonized cry the time-traveller sags against his father’s chest once more.

“This is my fault,” he whispers against the broad shoulder (but never as broad, never as strong, never as _right_ as Gimli’s), his body slack with guilt and defeat.

“It was her choice,” Thranduil gently admonishes him, “and only she had the right to make it. Do not deny her that – nor her ability to choose what is best in her opinion.”

“I… but- … she risked her own life for mine!”

“And Gimli’s,” the older one hums softly. “To her, it was worth the risk – she would have sacrificed herself without hesitation.”

“But why??”

“Other than the strong friendship she feels for you? Like everyone else, she is well aware of the importance of both your lives. Ever since your time-travel has become public knowledge… I do believe that Galadriel’s and Elrond’s instructions not only included the order to follow your lead, but also to protect you at all costs. Our soldiers received a similar command. All three of us know how important it is that you live to share with us what experience you gained in the future – your unique knowledge is our best chance to defeat the Shadow once and for all, with as little loss as possible.”

“Why should my life have more worth than theirs – than Caleth’s?” Legolas exclaims, shocked about the cool acceptation in his father’s voice. To be told they were instructed to sacrifice themselves for him-

“What about your hobbits?” Thranduil calmly asks in return. “You told us – me – about the battle you fought before the Black Gate. Either of you was ready to sacrifice their own life if only to buy Master Baggins and Master Gamgee more time, even the future King of Arnor and Gondor. At that moment, on the greater scale of things their lives weighed more than yours for they were the only ones able to destroy the Ring. Is that not right?”

Legolas deflates, finally understanding.

He had even thought it, back then – what worth did his life have if he could save thousands by forfeiting it?

Galadriel, Elrond, his father… they had had to make a hard decision, as all commanders have to at some point. Weighing the lives of few against those of many. And he certainly understands why they chose to give that instruction – this is not about the Battle of Five Armies at all.

It is about the War of the Ring.

Yet-

“It feels wrong,” he whispers, hiding his face against his father’s smooth cheek. “I was… more comfortable with protecting, with _sacrificing_ , than I am with being the one protected.”

“I know, ion nín,” his father murmurs. “You are a hero, after all.”

“I am _not-_ ”

“You are one of Nine Walkers who rode out to destroy the Enemy of the free peoples of Middle-Earth. One of three Walkers facing a sheer countless number of foes in a battle for the survival of Rohan. One of six Walkers ready to sacrifice themselves before the Black Gate of Morannon in an attempt to draw the Eye’s attention. One of two Walkers who stood ready to fight every single battle again when he found himself back at the beginning, despite everything he has been through. You, my son, have earned every laud you receive.”

The younger one can feel the sudden heat in his cheeks, burning like fire. (His father, he cannot help but think, has found out entirely too much about what happened in the future.)

“ _Lauds?_ ” he asks incredulously, and Thranduil chuckles fondly.

“It is good to see you down-to-Middle-Earth,” he teases gently.

“I am not- … I am not being modest, Ada,” Legolas murmurs, suddenly filled with shame. “What happened – the Gundabad orcs arriving too soon – could only surprise us the way it did because of the arrogance we let grow in our hearts. After all I have seen, I should not have trusted for _everything to work out_.” He spats out those last few words, almost disgusted by them, and Thranduil sighs.

“We all did,” he reminds his son, his own shame darkening his voice. “Despite our knowledge about the War to come we conveniently chose to believe that just that – _knowing_ – would be enough to prevent it. That all we had to do was save King Thorin, as well as the Princes…” he sighs again, suddenly sounding as drained and tired as the younger one. “We were so sure that we could do that without losing anyone else for it. The prize, however… nothing in this world comes for free, no matter how much we elves might pretend to stand above such petty concepts.”

New, old fear floods Legolas’ poor heart.

“Ada, who di-”

The sudden opening of the thick wooden door lets the question flee from his mind as fast as the Uruks had fled upon Éomer’s arrival, anxiety already making his heart tremble once more.

He jumps to his feet, eyes wide with the plea to receive good news even as his mouth is but a thin line, begging them not to tell him the bad ones.

Óin looks more tired than Legolas has ever seen him, and Ciril is leaning against Tauriel as she stumbles out of the chamber, barely able to keep her eyes open. The twins look little better than her, and the elf from Lórien stumbles with every second step.

“He will live,” the elderly dwarf hurries to reassure the elf upon seeing the fear in his eyes, “as long as the wound does not get infected. However…” Here he exchanges a short, terrible glance with Ciril, “…we have no guarantee that he will ever wake up again.”

His own pain is more than obvious – Gimli is, after all, the son of his brother.

Yet another cry of dismay falls from Legolas’ limp lips.

“Can I… see him?”

“Of course,” Óin mutters, his gruff voice almost hiding the treacherous gentleness. “In fact, your presence should even help…”

“How so?” Thranduil asks, words bright with interest, and Legolas spots a terrible curiosity in his father’s eyes. Oh _no_ , please _do not tell them_ -

The grin on the dwarf’s lips could only be described as sly. He steps to the side, letting the three female elves pass him and leave, before answering the Elvenking’s question with a decidedly evil glim in his own dark eyes (which are entirely too similar to Gimli’s.)

“His soul is bound to yours – the closer you are to him, the easier it should be for him to find his way back.”

Gimli’s soul is _what_ -

“Ah,” Thranduil hums contently, and Legolas is almost too shocked to feel any dread upon hearing his father make that noise, “it _is_ the same for elves and dwarves, then. Will it help if Legolas’ soul is also bound to his?”

“Of course!” Óin confirms, lips drawn into a toothy grin, and happily ignoring the prince’s shocked exclaim of “Ada!!”

Somehow, Elladan and Elrohir find the strength to chuckle.

“You make a great pair,” the older one snorts, “as both of you appear to be ridiculously clueless.”

With that they leave as well, and when Óin and Thranduil quite suddenly delve into a discussion about soulbonds – this is ridiculous! For _centuries_ neither elves not dwarves would have told the secrets that are only now being exchanged even if under torture! – Legolas finds himself both ignored and forgotten.

For a moment he shakes his head about all of Middle-Earth.

How can they be having such discussions when Gimli-

…

_Gimli!_

He all but flies into the chamber down the corridor, both Thranduil and Óin forgotten, only to stop short when his eyes fall on the figure on the hurriedly assembled cot. There is still entirely too much blood, despite the healers’ obvious efforts to clean, and if not for the barely visible rising and falling of the dwarf’s broad chest- …

Legolas would have thought him dead.

Pealed out of his customary armour and chainmail he appears oddly small and fragile. Mouth half opened, eye closed, the other half the face in bandages. Fiery red flowing down his head and chest as always, but darkened by an entirely different shade of the same colour, limbs visibly arranged by the healers.

Gimli never sleeps like that…

…

…

_Gimli._

Later, Legolas could not have said what he did upon seeing his dwarf like that.

All he knows is that his heart broke-

…

The next days pass in a blur.

He only ever leaves Gimli’s side when absolutely necessary, holding the broad, callused hand in his own slender one and whispering both soft words of love and desperate threats into the younger one’s ear.

There are some days when the sickly sweet scent of burnt flesh fills the halls and corridors of Erebor, barely kept out by the gates, and whenever he closes his eyes he finds himself running across dry plains once more, chasing after two stolen hobbits only to find the pile Éomer and his riders had left behind. (He knows, should he leave the Mountain he would find no orcs or goblins left on what was the battlefield.)

Then the funerals come, and he attends a few – Hádhron’s out of guilt, some others out of duty. Young Thorin’s tears are terrible to see, and he averts his gaze, does not allow himself to think that this is _their fault_ -

It feels as if he is no longer part of whatever happens, no matter his father’s rather desperate attempts to coax him from his detached desperation. There is a curtain between him and everyone else, the rest of the world bright with colours while his eyes see only grey.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into more than a month.

He watches as dried blood and set bone and re-knitted skin slowly turn into the crests and valleys of scarred tissue, and he prays, and he waits.

The healer’s words – first reassurances, confirmations that no infection has set in; then empty phrases of unfounded hope – mean less and less to him.

They know no better than him whether Gimli will ever wake up again.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I have bad news: I probably won't manage to write a new chapter till next Friday, maybe you'll have to wait even longer. Exams are coming up, and at the moment I'm working my ass off since I won't be able to do much once uni starts again...
> 
> Anyway, have a nice week!


	35. The scars of recent fires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **35\. The scars of recent fires**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: Two Towers – Chapter 7: Journey to the Cross-roads_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Sooo... work was slow today, so I managed to whip up a new chapter... it's quite possibly the cheesiest piece I've ever written O.o
> 
> Anyway, hope you like it - sorry for making you wait (I fear that won't change for the time being :/) and thanks for wishing me luck for my exams!! :D

### 35\. The scars of recent fires

Fire.

Flames licking down his spine, liquid heat boiling his blood, his head an _explosion_ -

…

Fire.

Flickering, blazing, _burning_.

A whole new kind of agony, worse than anything he has ever felt-

…

No, a tiny, traitorous voice whispers. A new kind – but not the worst. Not by far.

Nothing – nothing will ever be as excruciating as seeing him with Caleth, her fair head resting trustfully on his shoulder, or hearing the song flow from his pale lips like a rivulet, bright and beautiful-

…

Cannot die tonight, echoes in the few spaces not consumed by flames, cannot die tonight, so much that still needs to be taken care of, the Ring, _cannot die tonight_ -

…

_But is there a better, more courageous death than dying to save his heart?_

…

…

…

The flames have burnt down to embers when the darkness releases him again, still glowing but far less consuming than the firestorm from before. Little pearls of liquid stone – so hot that they are molten, but stone none the less, and stone he trusts – trickle down his spine, and his blood may be simmering, but is boiling no more.

His head – his head is another matter.

The ongoing blast has faded, no longer threatening to push him back into nothingness, and for the first few moments he might have believed it to be gone entirely – until he (rather unsuccessfully) attempts to open his (terribly heavy) eyes, and suddenly the side of his face is _ablaze_.

A pained moan erupts from his seemingly disconnected throat and makes its way through his stony, numb lips.

The fire rages for but a moment – then a comforting, cool hand smoothes against it, and the fire dies as quickly as it came.

“Gimli?” a beautiful, oh-so-familiar voice whispers, "Are you awake?"

Answering, it turns out, is quite another matter. Heaviness he has never felt before is weighing his tongue down, and his lips feel chiselled rather than alive. A pathetic grunt is all he manages, too weak and shocked still, yet a bright sound of delight pearls through whatever room he appears to be in.

“I am _so_ glad- …”

And just like that, the delight turns to dread – so consuming it is almost palpable.

“But please, Gimli, say something! I need to know… the blow hit your head so hard, please… mellon nín- … are you still- …”

_…yourself?_

“T-Tauriel,” the second attempt allows him to gasp clumsily, and the elf exclaims in relief.

“Thank Aulë- …”

Mahal, of all Valar, is the one she – an elf – chooses to thank?

Someday, Gimli thinks, he might understand the way elves think. One day… in the very far future…

“I should inform your father, and Legolas! Master Óin only managed to make them leave you for a little no more than an hour ago, but I believe- … he should not mind my messing with his scheming in this case. Give me a moment, please.”

He cannot hear her rush towards the door, of course, his ears by far not as keen as an elf's and her footsteps way too soft – the door's opening, however, he picks up just fine, as well as the low murmur of words exchanged. And while the content may evade him, the spoken whispers flowing together to an undistinguishable hum, it would have been hard _not_ to hear the delighted squeal. And not realizing who it belongs to… would have been rather embarrassing indeed. While the Mountain might still be filled with plenty of elves and men, no one squeals quite like a hobbit.

_Bilbo._

He made it, then.

“Everyone will be _so_ excited to hear that you are awake,” Tauriel murmurs gently after she has returned to his side, her own happiness still brightening her voice and delight colouring it once more. “Your father and Legolas most of all... but your Company as well, of course, along with my King.”

She does sound rather surprised about that last part, and a dry, hoarse chuckle makes it past Gimli's still terribly uncooperative lips.

“I… hope,” he rasps, forcing the words out even though his tongue feels as dry and brittle as gravel, “they will not… come upon me… all at once.”

Tauriel's laughter is bright and giddy, brimming with relief.

“I would be disappointed if they did not,” she gently teases, her cool fingers ghosting over his cheek once more.

Immediately, the laughter bubbling up in his own lungs is gone, snuffed out like a candle.

“Tauriel,” he asks hesitantly, almost afraid – “what happened?”

A short moment of silence.

A bad sign-

“What do you remember?” she wants to know, smooth voice carefully blank.

_Remember._

That – is the part he would rather skip, coward though it would be. Going back there, confronting the darkness still looming at the back of his mind-

…

Agony, he remembers thinking, was seeing Legolas with Caleth.

Agony was the fire in his veins, and the explosion in his head.

Agony- … will be remembering, the dark images he has managed to keep at bay so far once more at the forefront of his mind, waiting whenever he closes his eyes.

Yet – there is no choice, is there? If he does not remember, everyone will be worried, thinking the blow- … And if he has to remember, even if only for the sake of others… he would rather do it now, before they arrive, and be confronted with knowledge of what happened-

…

A sharp, piercing whistle – Thorin – Azog – Beorn – the Eagles – Hádhron – Thranduil – _Legolas_ -

_The crude mace that comes rushing towards his unprotected back_ -

…

The cry tears out of his throat and through his numb lips again quite without his consent, filled with the indescribable _agony_ of seeing Mandos open his arms in welcome-

…

“Gimli!” Legolas cries, his soul a torch that comes flying to his side, and another set of cool hands – the _right_ one, this time – settles against his cheeks, cradling his face with unexpected gentleness.

The elf is panting, his lithe body trembling against the dwarf's still slack arm, and there is a _fear_ rolling off him in waves the kind of which Gimli has never seen him experience before.

“Gimli,” he repeats, this time but a whisper, and soft tresses dance against the side of his neck. Then-

A drop of rain, splashing on his lid-

…

Not rain, the dwarven part of his mind tells him, according to the echoes they are inside a chamber, and a small one at that. Not rain-

…

The amount of strength it costs him to finally snap his eyes open, to make the weak arm rise and his feeble fingers grasp those lying comfortingly against his cheeks – exhausts him more than any battle ever has.

“Legolas,” he whispers, aghast.

The beautiful, endlessly blue eyes are blurred behind a film of liquid, red-rimmed and sunken-

“Gimli!” the elf exclaims again, and then all walls seem to crumble at once as he almost falls against the dwarf, suddenly boneless, and hides his face in the warm neck.

Shuddering with body-wrecking sobs he trembles against his friend, and the dwarf once more mobilises all his strength and willpower to force his arm around the lithe body, holding the elf's shivering torso against his own.

“Legolas,” Gimli hums against the pointed ear, spun gold tickling his nose and impossible closeness racing his heart. “Do not cry, I beg you – I cannot stand seeing-“

“You cannot stand seeing me cry?” Legolas asks sharply, surprised anger swirling in his deep eyes when he raises them from the warmth of the dwarf's neck. “Well, imagine what _I_ could not stand – perhaps watching you almost _die_?”

“Almost being the important part,” Gimli grumbles gently, terribly weak arm still slung securely around the slim shoulders. “I may be feeling as though I have been trampled by an oliphaunt before having been gifted to a cave troll for playing – but even that rather points towards me being alive, doesn't it?”

“This is _no_ laughing matter!” the elf scolds him, beautiful voice bordering on hysteric, and the redhead sighs tiredly.

“I certainly understand how terrible this must have been for you-“ he begins, only to be interrupted by the suddenly furious prince.

“ _Do you??_ ”

Another sigh.

“Of course I do,” Gimli gently reprimands him, wishing he would not have to elaborate. This is only going to pain the older one… yet, he is too exhausted to deal with this the way he ought to, without hurting his friend. “You know what I did when faced with the possibility of your death.”

Legolas recoils, eyes wide with shock and _pain_.

For a moment he stares at his friend with pure, agonized incredulity shining in his eyes, before crumbling as understanding dawns.

“Forgive me, mellon nín,” he murmurs, face hidden in the strong shoulder once more. “You are right, of course… I heard you scream, when you thought you were going to lose me, and- ... it is your life, and your choice whether to make fun of it.” The last words are ringing with a tiny bit of cheek, a weak attempt to lighten the mood, and Gimli can feel the iron ropes around his heart ease.

“I ought to apologize as well,” he grumbles good-naturedly, fingers slowly curling around the shoulder, the blunt tips coming to lie against a slender collarbone. Legolas shudders against him- ... “I should not have reminded you of my stupid feat.”

“Stupid indeed,” the elf hums lowly into the crook of his neck, warm breath caressing the puckered skin and making goose bumps erupt wherever it hits. “I- … I know of course why you did it, but- … how could you do this to _me_? Gimli, if you- … if you had died- …”

“You would have had to take care of the Ring alone... visit Aragorn alone...” Guilt rears its ugly head. It is not, however, strong enough to make Gimli regret his sacrifice. Never-

“If you had died I would have withered away and followed you within weeks, perhaps even _days_ ,” Legolas disagrees hotly.

Gimli freezes, the implication making all thoughts slam to a halt-

“Perhaps this is not the appropriate time for that discussion?” a deep voice prompts mildly, and the dwarf's head snaps around.

“Uncle!”

“It is good to see you talking again, lad,” Óin grumbles, the gruffness belied by the relief in his eyes and the happiness on his lips. “How are you feeling?”

“…stiff,” Gimli deadpans.

The aged dwarf rolls his eyes, and slaps the younger one's arm currently not occupied by an elf. “Any pain?”

“Some when I woke up,” the time-traveller hesitantly admits. “Tauriel took care of it, though.”

“And now?”

“None.” He squints. “…not that I have moved around a lot yet, of course. I have only just overcome the rock I must have grown instead of a tongue…”

The snort – though rather dwarvish in nature – clearly comes from Tauriel. Huh.

“You were without consciousness for almost five weeks – what did you expect?”

Gimli freezes once more.

“Five… _five weeks_?” he asks disbelievingly, before clinging to Legolas' slim shoulder even more tightly, and the elf shudders once again. Five weeks. They did not know whether he would wake up for _five weeks_ …

“We would have given up hope,” Óin confesses lowly, “if not for Ciril's never-ending belief…”

“Ciril?” Gimli inquires weakly.

“Our best healer,” Thranduil explains from across the room, and when in Mahal’s name did he arrive??

“My brother seriously doubted his own skill for the first time…” another deep rumble adds, and the time-traveller smiles in tired relief.

“‘Adad…”

Glóin’s strong fingers finds their way around Gimli’s, and he holds on tightly. “I did not want to steal you away from Legolas,” the older one weakly teases, the shaky layer of cheekiness attempting to drown out to tears in his dark eyes and the trembling of his hands.

Gimli gives him the best smile he manages, well aware that there is little he can say after having lain unconscious for so long.

“I am glad to see you well, ‘Adad!”

His father raises his bushy eyebrows. “I will be even better when your mother arrives, and has your hide for almost getting yourself killed,” he threatens, and the younger one stares at him with wide eyes.

“…you told her??”

“Of course I did!" Glóin snaps back, before deflating. “You are our son, and no one knew whether you would wake up again… whether you were going to die… She deserved to know! Or had you rather she arrive here with the first caravan, expecting to see us both, only to find but your grave??” He does sound rather angry now – and desperate. The guilt rears its ugly head again. “I sent her a raven as soon as the battle was over…” His voice shakes a little, and Gimli holds onto his hand even more tightly. “In fact, a few weeks later I received word from Elrond, informing me that some of his men picked up her and a few others of the women from Ered Luin at the banks of the Bruinen, soaking wet after a rather unfortunate crossing. Apparently they were not interested in waiting until the official caravan left, and found it a good idea to try on their own. Considering what misfortunes we managed to find I have to admit I am more than relieved that the elf sent them on with an escort to be released at Mirkwood, by some of Thranduil’s men who will lead them here.”

His tone betrays his grudging thankfulness for both elven leaders’ actions, and Gimli chuckles softly.

“That does sound like her,” he admits gently.

Glóin snorts.

“Of course it does!” he rants, “and of course you would find it amusing!” Behind him, Óin is snickering rather openly. “You would have done the bloody same – when it comes to sudden, arbitrary decisions, the two of you are ridiculously alike! In fact, had you still been your natural age, and I the one wounded, you would have made her let you come along within _minutes_! And here I had wished you might come after your level-headed father…”

At that not only Óin snorts loudly, but also Legolas and Fundin’s older son (who must have arrived at some point) – while Dwalin is outright laughing.

“In comparison to her – I might be tempted to agree with Glóin,” Thorin rumbles from where he is leaning against a wall, a light crown upon his brow and managing to appear regal no matter his relaxed stance. (Somehow, Gimli begins to suspect, he is not yet able to have a conversation and keep an eye on his surroundings at the same time, what with everyone appearing without him ever noticing.) “Women!”

At that, the time-traveller flinches.

He knows where this is going…

“Tell me she did not!”

“Of course she did,” Balin huffs, rolling, his eyes in an unusual show of exasperation, “as well you should have expected! Her sons were hurt, afte-”

“Hurt??” Gimli exclaims, forcing his body into a sitting position no matter the lava that rushes down his spine. “What happened?”

Óin snorts once again even as he pushes the younger one back down.

“The boys tried to be heroes, of course. Not surprising, after your idiotic stunt! Ever since you returned to us from your future they have been emulating you to a dangerous extent, and when you threw yourself between the one you love and a potentially deadly blow – what do you expect Fíli did when a sword came a little too close to Kíli’s head?”

Choosing to ignore this open talking about his feelings for the moment (even though Legolas’ beautiful eyes are sparkling dangerously) Gimli groans, fear making his heart race.

After everything he has done to make sure they survive...

“But… he lives?”

“He lost an eye,” Thorin admits, deep rumble suddenly grave, and sighs. “Which he thinks will compliment his kingly face or however he put it… Kíli was torn between beating him up for making fun of it, and admiring his _courageous warrior_.” The last few words – clearly a quote – he says as if they were something slimy on his tongue, almost spitting them out.

Legolas snickers.

“While he is overjoyed they finally found love in each other, he is rather disgusted by their open displays of affection,” he stage-whispers, ignoring the King under the Mountain's majestic scowl and his own father's ensuing cackle. “Understandable, considering that he is more of a father than an uncle to them, and already walked in on them _twice_.”

Thranduil laughs openly at that, and Thorin sends the fellow King a dark glance.

“Just you wait until Gimli and Legolas get their act together and you run into their _open displays of affection_ ,” he threatens, and Thranduil blanches. (His own face, Gimli imagines, is probably heading into the opposite direction, considering with how it is heating up at the implication.)

“Do not remind me of it,” the Elvenking moans, “I do _not_ want to catch my son engaged in... that kind of activities.”

“Ada!” Legolas exclaims, his own cheeks conspicuously alight, and Óin chuckles good-naturedly.

“Perhaps we should not tease them thusly before they have even _talked_ about the matter?” he prompts mildly, before proceeding to herd everyone out of the room. “Besides, Gimli is still my patient, who woke up after _weeks_ of unconsciousness – so, everyone except direct family out, healer's orders! And yes, that also includes Kings of whatever realm!”

He then expertly chases them out of the chamber, happily ignoring both Thranduil's and Thorin's protests. It is only when Legolas rises from where he is still half sitting, half lying on Gimli's cot, pure dejection making his pretty face fall, that the aged dwarf rolls his eyes.

“Stay, elfling. You are good as family anyway.”

The beautiful eyes light up in happiness, and Gimli barely realizes how Óin's large hand finds its way around Glóin's muscular arm, the older brother pulling the unwilling younger along and out of the room. All he knows is that he is suddenly alone with Legolas, the door closing behind the last two, and that there was all that talk of _I would have withered away and followed you within weeks_ and _just you wait until Gimli and Legolas get their act together_ and _you are good as family anyway_ -

“Gimli,” Legolas whispers, blue eyes wide with what might be nervousness (or rather, blank panic), “I… do you… do you remember our conversation when we waited for Haldir and D-Dáin to arrive, about- … about hearts and souls?”

Of course I do! the dwarf wants to yell, how could I not? It was the reason I almost-

“What about it?”

He averts his gaze, unable to stare into the terribly blue depths any longer. All those implications, yet- … he cannot allow himself to hope.

Too grave would the ramifications be should he be misinterpreting all this.

“Meleth nín... I realize I should have told you then. A better moment, I imagine, could not have come… Yet, I was too scared, too frightened. Not only about the possibility of your rejection itself, which I did expect – but also about the ramifications.” That does sound awfully familiar- “I did not dare walk into a battle after being rejected by the one I had given my fëa to, too great would the risk have been… Only after you fell, sacrificing yourself for me, and I was left with holding your head together until we reached the healers, with waiting, with _praying_ \- … until your uncle instructed me to sit with you, claiming that it would help you find your way back since _you_ had bound your soul to _mine_ \- … it was only then that I realized how much pain I could have spared both of us, and that now I might never get the chance to tell you... I love you, Gimli Glóin's son, with everything that I am and ever can be. My heart is yours, and without you my fëa is incomplete. _I_ am incomplete.”

Legolas’ long fingers find his chin and gently turn his head, making him look into the deep blue seas once more.

Gimli finds himself frozen.

His heart is beating faster than ever, even as all his thoughts have slammed to a stop.

“I- … love you too,” he manages to choke, lips and tongue as uncooperative as when he woke up, and a sound of pure delight fills the chamber.

With wide eyes Gimli stares at the pale, beautiful lips it has fallen from.

_His_ -

“Oh, my dear Gimli!” Legolas beams, and – somehow, quite without his active choice – strong arms wrap themselves around slim shoulders once more.

“I thought- … _Caleth_ -”

Deep eyes widen in surprise.

“Caleth?” the elf asks incredulously, “What about her?”

“I- … it was obvious that you cared about her,” the dwarf weakly explains, and Legolas' face lights up in understanding.

“She provoked my protective instincts, I assume, when I found out about her situation – but saw how strong she was trying to be none the same. You are right, I care about her, but- … more like about a sister. In fact, I might just be tempted to make father officially claim her as his daughter,” he then adds, eyes sparkling with cheek.

“But- … why?”

“Well, someone will need to provide him with an heir…”

A surprised, snorted laughter somehow makes it past Gimli's lips.

“I love _you_ , my dearest dwarf, and no one else!” Legolas promises firmly, before melting against the strong body once more.

Gimli pulls him even closer.

“ _Ge melin_ ,” he murmurs into the pointed ear suddenly so close to his lips, and lets his heartbeat flow together with Legolas', racing against his ribs through two pairs of thin tunics.

“My Gimli,” the elf hums, sounding more content than ever, and the dwarf finds himself quite lost for words.

“Legolas… would you allow me a question?”

“Any,” the blonde breathes against his neck, and Gimli shudders.

“… why me?”

“I might ask just the same-”

“You are an elf,” the redhead interrupts him, “Who would not love an elf?”

Legolas raises his head, only to give him a rather dry look.

“Most dwarves, as a matter of fact… I am far from what most of your people look for in a lover.”

“And yet there is nothing and no one in all of Middle-Earth who might ever rival your beauty,” Gimli murmurs, understanding what the older one is trying to tell him. “While most dwarves would compare their Ones to strong metals and precious gems… I cannot do that. For while you might be as persistent as Mithril, and as beautiful as any jewel, I cannot compare you to rock and stone. Just like a flower, your beauty lies in the life that flows through you, and like a tree your strength comes not from hardness but from deep roots and flexibility… and while it may have taken me some time to learn how to admire such features just as much as fine gems and precious metals – I did learn it, and now nothing may rival your beauty. Also, I would be a poor example of a dwarf, could I not find beauty in your deadly grace and elegance.”

Legolas' eyes are wide with joy, and his beaming smile is quite dazzling.

“You and your silver tongue… my dear dwarf, you do know how to delight an elf. To me, you are of the utmost beauty as well.”

Gimli raises his bushy eyebrows. “I might be pleasing to a dwarf's eye,” he admits, “with my full beard and stout body. What an elf my find pleasing about me, however, I cannot imagine.”

Legolas shakes his head in what might be fond exasperation, and the dwarf's heart stutters once more.

“Your dwarven strength and ability are certainly as deadly and as beautiful as my elven _grace and elegance_ , as you put it – however, there is so much more about you that appeals to both my eye and mind. Your strong shoulders are as pleasing as the fiery colour of both your hair and beard, not to mention your wicked humour. I love your ability to make any situation – any _battle_ – feel winnable, and your dark eyes that are ever sparkling. You make me… you make me feel _safe_ , Gimli, and though I never thought that I might enjoy that – a warrior of my own right as I am – there is nothing that excites me more than the knowledge that no foe would make it past your strength and axe should you stand to protect me.”

Gimli shudders, blood ablaze with the sheer _satisfaction_ about knowing that his One would trust him to offer protection.

“You too know how to appeal to a dwarf's self-confidence,” he rumbles, and Legolas’ bright laughter resounds like a thousand silver bells.

“Also,” the elf adds, and _did his voice just drop at least an octave??_ , “I do have to admit I understand Prince Kíli, in a way – your new scars are rather… fetching.”

“My- …” Gimli freezes.

He took a mace to the head, a blow that would have killed Legolas. Granted, he wore his helmet, but- … he did black out within moments.

Of course there would be scars.

“…how bad is it?”

The deep blue eyes are alight with an unknown fire, and darker than he has ever seen them.

“Visible,” the elf answers curtly, “however, I find myself quite intrigued...”

“You do not... mind them?”

“They are even further proof of your strength, of your _love_ – and while those past weeks have certainly been terrifying, the scars a constant reminder of your condition… now that I see them in your conscious face – I do have to admit that they suit you, in a way I never thought possible,” he breathes hotly against the younger one's skin. “Another reminder that you are a warrior who would shrink away from nothing…”

“I should watch you around Dwalin,” Gimli gasps in a weak attempt to joke, forcing his hands to stay where they are.

Legolas' body flush against his, voice deep and hoarse with _excitement_ – are arousing emotions he does not yet feel strong enough to cope with.

The elf, it appears, understands immediately.

“Please forgive me, meleth nín… you have barely woken, and already I am tempting you thusly. It is simply… hard to control myself, when the prize is so beautifully on display…”

Slender fingers ghost down the contours of his strong abdominal muscles, which are barely hidden by the thin tunic he is wearing. (Flames he only now realizes dancing in a fireplace do keep the small chamber warm, it seems.)

He gasps for air, trembling when the sensation races up his nerves, and Legolas snaps his hand away.”

“I am terribly sorry!” he whimpers, hiding his suddenly flaming face once more in the crook of Gimli's neck, “you are ridiculously tempting…”

His body melts against the dwarf's as if it were meant to be there, the redhead's strong arm wrapped securely (perfectly) around a slender waist, and Legolas goes from embarrassment to content within moments.

“Would you mind if I stayed?” he hums, voice suddenly drowsy instead of husky, and all Gimli can do is shake his head, holding the elf close and almost falling into Irmo's open arms.

His heartbeat in tune with the elf's is the last sensation that makes it through before sleep claims him.

 

_TBC_


	36. He grew stronger and bolder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **36\. He grew stronger and bolder**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 2: The Shadow of the Past_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> HA! Somehow, inspiration chose to - quite suddenly - strike yesterday evening :D
> 
> The chapter's rather short, and still quite cheesy, but... it's a chapter, right? ^^
> 
> Also, the great, wonderful **errandofmercy** allowed me to borrow her beautiful song. There's also an audio file, if you haven't listened to it already you definitely should: https://soundcloud.com/errandofmercy-1/gigolas-wav

### 36\. He grew stronger and bolder

He wakes to the sensation of gentle fingers combing through his long hair, and a beautiful tune flowing through the air.

As he sighs softly the gentle melody slowly grows fainter, and then passes into a single word – spoken, but with a voice so melodious it might as well have been sung.

“Gimli.”

His lips, quite without his cooperation, are pulled into what is certainly a ridiculously cheesy smile. It feels… strange, in a way, for it pulls at what must be almost healed scars and stiches, yet not even that can keep him from answering in turn.

“Legolas.”

A warm, slender body is molten against his own, the fingers still running through the fiery red tresses, and for a few moments he allows himself to enjoy this. The peace, the _love_ of the moment – surely he has earned that much, for he knows: A council is awaiting (perhaps not today, but too soon still), a new battle – a new _war_ – to be fought, and he has not yet found out how the others did fare, apart from Fíli.

No matter the advantage of knowing Azog’s strategies, some… some will have fallen. He has seen too much blood and death not to be aware of that.

Right now, though, in this moment, he lets Legolas’ love and body warm his skin and heart, and the tune which is flowing again heal his soul.

Easily he recognizes the melody, from those terrible hours before the battle when he had thought his beloved lost to him forever, bound to a beautiful elven maid.

“Is this the ballad you wrote?”

Legolas’ tenses against him, and the last drops of the song fall from his lips, shocked. For a few moments silence reigns, then the elf’s posture eases and his head finds its place in the crook of Gimli’s neck.

“You overheard our conversation before we left the mountain,” the blonde realizes, fingers still moving, caressing. “I should have known. You should not- … you, my dear dwarf, must be ridiculously masochistic. You believed that I had chosen Caleth, and still you chose to eavesdrop? I am well aware of how that conversation must have sounded to you…”

“Listening in was _not_ intentional,” the redhead mutters, feeling his face heat up. “I ran into you, and- … it has always been hard for me to leave whatever room you were in.”

“Stupid, _stupid_ dwarf!” Legolas murmurs against his neck, ignoring the goose bumps that follow the gentle caress of his breath, before sighing. “And yes, you are right… what I hummed was indeed that ballad. Caleth was right too, I am hopelessly romantic.”

“You are an elf,” Gimli chuckles fondly, as if that were an explanation for everything (and quite often it indeed is), before hesitating. “…would you sing it to me?”

Bright, silvery laughter flows from the pale lips and against his neck, making him shiver. “Of course. But would you like to _hear_ it, Gimli, meleth nín? It is not the kind of song I would expect dwarves to enjoy.”

“If it is a song about you, and your heart, I would always enjoy it. If it is also a song about me, written by you – I might enjoy it even more,” he replies cheekily, trying his best to ignore his racing heart, and Legolas chuckles softly.

“You only wish to hear me tell again how much I love you.”

“I always will,” he immediately agrees, heart stumbling and trembling, “after spending so long feeling your amrâb against mine, yet believing it was a one-sided, maybe even stolen bond. That maybe I had taken your fëa like a thief in the shadows. It brought me as much pain as it brought me comfort, and being told that its rightful place is indeed interwoven with yours – I do believe I will never tire of that.”

“Then I shall tell you as often as you wish,” Legolas murmurs against his neck, lips brushing against his skin ever so softly and making the younger one shiver, before the tune picks up again.

The beautiful melody flows from his pale mouth which is still resting dangerously against the dwarf’s neck, yet fills the whole chamber like water running into a bowl, steadily and unstoppable. Then, in an ability but the Firstborn have ever been gifted (1), words fall from his lips to join the music, sung at the same time:

 

_Like a jewel buried deep beneath the ground_  
My love gave off no light and made no sound  
It lay untouched for a century  
Til miner’s hands came and set it free  
And to your fate my soul was ever bound 

_For years I walked the forest paths alone_  
Among my father’s kin the seeds were sown  
The malice I was taught to bear  
My race’s callous lack of care  
Was washed away like ocean-polished stone 

_Oh, a’maelamin_  
You have proved the folly of my kin  
Oh, ai ‘atar  
Your spirit shines as bright as any star 

_At first I found it difficult to trust_  
My people’s ill opinions all seemed just  
But as we tread the thorny path  
And fought to stave off evil’s wrath  
Our wariness soon crumbled all to dust 

_In Lorien beneath the Mallorn trees_  
The radiant Lady brought you to your knees  
To see the love within your eyes  
Awoke in me a sweet surprise  
A firm devotion that would never cease 

_Mela en coriamin_  
I’ll stay beside you til your eyes grow dim  
Oh, spangaer  
With you I’ll board the fair grey ships and sail 

_Away..._ (2)

 

Gimli trembles when the last note falls away, leaving the chamber empty and full at the same time.

His heart is racing once again, trembling and quaking with the emotions that are burning in his veins.

To have their love compared to a jewel – Legolas really knows how to appeal to a dwarf’s love for everything stone, he thinks weakly.

Then those last lines…

Easily he remembers the evening he had promised his dear friend to sail with him whenever the beckoning of the Undying Lands would prove too tempting to resist any longer. The boundless gratitude in the deep blue eyes had taken away his breath, then, convincing him that giving this promise had indeed been the right choice. Even though it may cost him entrance into the Halls of Waiting, as he knew little of what Mahal would think of him going with the elf – Legolas had always, and would always, be worth that risk.

“Do not misunderstand me, my friend,” the dwarf had said, “your answer could not change my choice in any way – but would I even be allowed to set foot onto shore?”

A smile, quite dazzling and yet sad at the same time, had been his answer. “You are Elvellon – if any dwarf would ever be granted the right to enter, it would be you. Besides, the Lady of Light was the one to propose I ask for your company in the first place. She will sail soon, I expect, and perhaps take along Frodo and Bilbo… and who could ever deny the Lady of the Galadhrim, be they elf, Vala or other?”

Another smile finds its way to his lips, and this time he could not care less about the unfamiliarity of the sensation, the slight pain pulling at his new scars. (Many of those on his heart and soul, he finds, have healed and in turn, he can certainly take these on his body.)

“And change you I did, much like you changed me.”

“Indeed,” Legolas hums, happily sighing against his neck, and there is nothing Gimli can do but hold him even closer. Just a little longer…

“It will go down in history as The Ballad of Gimli and Legolas,” a soft voice quietly remarks, flowing across the room and causing the dwarf to finally snap open his eyes. He did not hear anyone enter-

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Legolas gently scolds Caleth, who is sitting in a chair at the other end of the room. Even from his position Gimli easily spots the dark, angry scar running down her pale neck – and the cheek in her dark eyes. “Why would it?”

“Because _you_ will go down in history?” the beautiful elf answers, amusement colouring the soft words. “Elvellon and khuzd-bah, two of the Nine Walkers and Three Hunters, time-travellers who came to spare so many an incredible pain?”

“Were sent, you mean,” Gimli grumbles, rolling his eyes. This is ridiculous.

“If nothing else, your love will always be epic,” Caleth gently teases, and the dwarf snorts incredulously. “And you _finally_ sang it to him!” Turning to address the dwarf she rolls her eyes: “I did tell him repeatedly to just do so, and show his love by way of melody if he was too coward to speak of it directly… in that, it seems, you were equally _chicken_.”

Gimli snorts again (although he cannot disagree) while Legolas raises his head to gift her with a bright, cheeky smile even though his pale skin has taken on a faint red tone. “Did you come for any other reason than to make fun of us?”

She blushes as well, before jumping to her feet. “My Lord Thranduil” (it is the prince’s turn to roll his eyes) “sends me, to warn you that the dwarves are planning to have dinner here, now that Gimli is better. But I _did_ also come to tease you.”

Gimli blanches. “Am I even well enough for that kind of excitement?” he asks weakly and Legolas chuckles softly.

“…it is but a dinner?” Caleth inquires, apparently confused, and the blonde’s laughter pearls through the chamber.

“Dinner, in that context, I would expect to mean a feast – to celebrate he has woken. And if that kind of feast is had by a Company of dwarves, who have spent the last five weeks worrying over him…”

Caleth, too, pales.

“But… your father? ... I-”

“Will be wherever the wine is, I expect.”

The dark-haired elf sighs, falling back into her chair. “And Ciril will allow this to happen?” she asks disbelievingly, shaking her head. For all that she now is quite open with her princeling friend, dwarven habits and mannerisms appear to still worry her.

Gimli squints, thinking back to their last conversation. “Ciril – she is the healer, aye?”

“She is,” Legolas confirms, long fingers still woven into his hair. “And I expect she will have little choice in that matter… but I am sure both she and Óin will interfere should Gimli’s health be at stake, which I doubt. It will simply be… loud and chaotic, including lots of ale. Remember, none of them had much reason to celebrate these last weeks…”

Gimli freezes, even as Caleth nods in understanding. So much about peace and blissful ignorance… it is time to face reality.

Hesitantly unwinding his arms from around his beloved’s lithe body he begins to work his own into a sitting position, immediately supported by Legolas as soon as he realizes the dwarf’s effort.

Soft fur has been placed against the headboard of whatever bed he is lying on, and he leans against it with deep relief. He is still rather week, and the more he can hide that, the better – Legolas need not worry more than he will do anyway.

Sighing again he turns his head to stare at the beautiful creature sitting before him, watching his every move with attentive eyes. Like a predator stalking its prey-

No, no thoughts of that kind, especially not with Caleth in the room!

Taking a deep breath he forces himself to ask the one question either of them learned to hate and fear during the War of the Ring, the one question which grew more terrible with every battle they fought or heard of.

“Who fell?”

The blonde freezes for a moment, averts his gaze, and Gimli feels his heart grow cold.

“ _Who?_ ”

“None of the Company,” Legolas hurries to reassure him, “or I would have told you already.” He hesitates, and the dwarf cannot stop the cold fear from creeping down his veins, paralyzing him. “Bofur lost a leg but is already doing quite well, Dwalin has acquired a number of new scars, and you already know about Fíli’s eye.”

“Who, Legolas?”

The older one’s shoulders fall.

“Hádhron,” he admits, voice but a whisper, and a deep, burning guilt settles in the redhead’s stomach. He had seen the other on Ravenhill, fighting back to back with Dwalin after everything that had been said- “And- …”

The icy dread makes his fingers shake, his tongue as heavy as when he had woken up the first time.

“…Haldir?”

Not again, please, no-

The elf’s shoulders fall even further, and he shakes his head, beautiful eyes averted. “No. Almost, but- … he has not fought in that kind of battle before, and when they were separated again- … Dáin sent Hallvadur to his aid, leaving his own back unprotected. He even fought his way back to Haldir, but took a wound to his thigh, and when he saw the crossbow aimed at Haldir’s back… he took the bolt meant for him, only moments before the Eagles took out the orc which had shot it. According to Balin, who arrived but before he left for the Halls, he said something about Haldir’s immortal life weighing more than his own, and that he had always wanted to go that way – in a battle, to save a friend. Haldir is still in shock.”

Gimli barely hears the last few words as the first sob forces its way out of his throat, making him tremble violently. “No- …” he gasps, “not Dáin, not- …”

Slender but strong arms find their way around his shoulders and Legolas pulls him halfway into his lap when he buries his face in the simple tunic, shaking with the force of his pain. This is their fault, they changed the plan, Dáin should not have died, he could have lived so much longer-

“He does not regret his death, I am sure of that,” the elf whispers soothingly, arms holding him safely against the lean chest. “Much like either of us would have given our lives to save Aragorn, he made his choice – for according to Balin it was exactly that: His choice.”

“He did die defending King Brand’s body the first time,” Gimli murmurs weakly, feeling Legolas nod.

“That he did. He went in honour and with the knowledge that because of him, Haldir lives. I- … I knew him not like you did, not him who fell for Haldir nor him who fell for Brand, but I did like him and I do feel with you. He received a grand funeral, much like Thorin Oakenshield the first-”

“Thorin!” Gimli interrupts him, barely suppressing the next sob, “How is he?”

“Thorin Oakenshield was collected, but visibly shaken. Thorin Stonehelm… it was the only funeral I attended while you lay unconscious, and I am glad that I did. Dáin deserved the utmost respect, and his son deserved to know that we care for his loss and his father’s sacrifice. He was devastated, but has since found back to himself. He stayed here with about 100 of his men, together with… Hanar I believe his name was? Nordri took the others back to the Iron Hills. Both the King under the Mountain and my father do their best to instruct young Thorin on how to lead his people while he is still coping with his grief. He will… he will be a great King once more, I am sure.”

Feeling a little better Gimli takes a deep breath, raises a hand to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

“I should have been there when he was returned to the Stone!”

“You could not have been,” Legolas gently chides him, “yet you can pay your respects once you feel better. It will be more than enough.”

“Indeed,” Caleth softly confirms, dark eyes wide and sad. “I grieve with you, Gimli Glóin’s son, for I lost my brother to this War much like you lost your cousin. They would not have wished for us to despair, though – they fell so that we might live. And while Haldir still cannot comprehend that a dwarf would go that far to save an elf, while he will carry the guilt of having survived while his partner fell for as long as he lives – that is exactly what Dáin gave him. Life.”

Taking a deep breath Gimli nods once more, before slowly detangling himself from his One and leaning back against the fur.

“D-dinner you said, right?” he inquires weakly, knowing that he, too, will carry the guilt of Dáin’s death for as long as he lives. Along with so many others.

Caleth nods, a single bright tear finding its way down her cheek, and the dwarf takes another breath.

“Is there any chance you might help me take a bath first?” he asks of his beloved, well aware that the blonde will be more than desperate to keep him from asking too much of his weakened body. “I am feeling… sweaty, _dirty_ , and my hair and beard must be in an atrocious condition.”

“They are not,” Legolas hurries to convince him with a shy smile, “I took care of them knowing how important they are to you.”

Gimli freezes.

“You- …”

Yet another deep breath, his fingers buried in the soft furs underneath him.

Legolas’ smile wilts away like a flower without water. “I- … should I not have? I didn’t know-”

Growling, Gimli surges forward as fast as his trembling muscles allow him, reaching for the _prize_ as the blonde had put it. The elf gasps for air when suddenly broad hands grab his tunic and pull him forward, a pair of lips crushing against his own. Now he is the one trembling in the dwarf’s arms, melting against his strong torso and returning the heated kiss just as eagerly-

“Bath!” Gimli pants, having pulled himself away from his beloved’s beautiful, tempting kiss with whatever self-control he has left, “I am _not_ well enough for this!”

“And while I might adore the sight of you two _finally_ in each other’s arms I certainly do not wish to watch!” Caleth adds dryly, and the dwarf almost whimpers with mortification when he remembers her presence. “I think taking a bath is a great idea – go, in the meantime I will change the sheets and furs, and inform the others should they show up before you return.”

“Thank you, Caleth,” Legolas murmurs, his cheeks as red as Gimli’s, before simply lifting the redhead into his arms. “You are way too weak to walk!” he disagrees before the younger one can even offer a word of protest, and – sighing – he gives in. If there is any who might ever be allowed to treat him like this, it is Legolas.

“If you drop me I will torment you until my very last day,” he still threatens, which Legolas answers with a bright grin.

“I should hope so! Besides, I have carried you before.”

There is no need to ask, Gimli knows what he is talking about.

“And I trust you with my life.”

Another bright, dazzling smile, and the dwarf buries his head in the crook of the blonde’s neck. Looking at him with those eyes, talking about touching his hair, taking him to _bathe_ – tonight, his self-control will be put to an acid test.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I borrowed this ability from a German Pen&Paper rolegame called DSA
> 
> (2) Like I said, this was written by **errandofmercy** , you can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225183
> 
> \---
> 
> ...I only just realized, Oin's name is a part of the word "OINtment"... huh O.o
> 
> Also, did any of you watch the extended scenes of Hobbit 3? I cried my eyes out :(


	37. They had seen scars of the old wars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **37\. They had seen scars of the old wars**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: Two Towers – Chapter 4: Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Here's the promised new chapter... Happy New Year, guys! You're awsome!! <3

### 37\. They had seen scars of the old wars

The water in the communal baths is miraculously hot – apparently, the plumbing has been fixed in the time that has passed since the battle – and Gimli forgets anything other than the blissful heat when Legolas helps him take a seat in one of the shallowest basins without hesitation. They have seen each other naked often enough, a quest such as theirs claiming even the last shreds of privacy.

The elf produces a bar of soap from… somewhere, and hurriedly the redhead washes away five weeks’ worth of sweat and ointments, and the remaining grim of the battle before. Oh, he does not doubt his family’s attempts to clean him as well as possible – which is still not the same as sitting in a tub and scrubbing away the last splatters of dirt and black orc blood.

Without a single word Legolas reaches for the soap to run over his broad back, another melody flowing from his pale lips, before tentatively combing through the waterfall of fiery red hair.

“Would you allow me to take care of it?” he whispers, the slight tremble of his voice barely audible, and Gimli shivers.

“Please do,” he answers throatily, and the fingers on his head freeze for a moment.

“It is… intimate, then, for dwarves – touching another’s hair and beard?”

“Very,” Gimli gulps, his own hands stiffly in his lap. This will be even harder than expected.

“And yet you let me braid it, all those months ago,” the elf hums as he begins to wash the long tresses, using his slender fingers to gently unravel what tangles he finds.

“It was unfair of me, to thusly exploit your ignorance,” the redhead admits heavily, and the elf chuckles softly.

“How you always manage to find fault in what you do is beyond me,” he chides mildly. “I am more than honoured that you allowed me to do so, even without knowing what it meant. No matter my level of information, it speaks of how much you trusted me – to let me perform such a task, even though you feared you might never claim my heart as yours.”

“I did trust you,” Gimli agrees lowly, deciding to leave it with that. There is no need to tell Legolas about everything he had felt when those agile fingers had danced through his hair, not now. There will be a time and a place for that. Instead he hums contently, and enjoys the elf’s gentle motions. The blonde takes care not to tug and diligently makes his way through strands and tresses, his own hum soon joining the dwarf’s. The hot water soothes any aches still present, and when he finally climbs from the basin the redhead feels almost well again. (Except, of course, for the lingering weakness that speaks of five weeks unconsciousness.)

“May I… braid it again?” Legolas asks hesitantly and with a gentle smile (still pulling at his scar, but right now he does not mind in the slightest) Gimli sinks onto a stone stool, the content melody taking up again when the slender fingers almost effortlessly mould his hair and beard into the usual simple travelling braids. (There will be days to put in the more festive styles soon enough, and anyway, the elf has never been taught those.)

Letting his own fingers run down the braids Gimli nods, impressed.

“It… took me more than a lot attempts, to get them right,” Legolas murmurs, blushing, and the dwarf chuckles softly.

The elf then produces a flat piece of metal from somewhere (behind a broad clay vase, by the looks of it), holds it in front of his friend’s face. The polished surface shines in the light of the few lit torches, and Gimli finds himself staring into the face of a familiar dwarf who could not look any less alien to his eyes.

The fiery red of his hair and beard frame an experienced warrior’s weathered face, black depths not as alert as they might be-

…

The thick, barely healed scars run from his temple down the side of his neck and stop at his collar bone.

Puckered skin stretches from his mouth to his somewhat misshapen ear in mountains and valleys of both angry red and deathly pale, betraying the way bone was crushed and shifted underneath. The healers certainly managed to fix it well enough – he is able to open and close his mouth, after all (even though a few teeth appear to be uncomfortably absent, as he only now realizes) – and the hard, thick skull of a dwarf is not so easily pulverized-

The mirror falls to the floor with a loud, clattering noise as Gimli pushes it from his elf’s grasp, surging forward.

His broad, trembling hands find Legolas’ slim shoulders, pulling him close with unnecessary force. Breathing harshly Gimli hides his face against the pale, reassuringly, _miraculously unmarred_ skin of the blonde’s long neck, his own shoulders shaking.

His heart might as well have stopped, when he realized.

“Legolas- …”

“I…” The elf’s voice sounds slightly pained, and Gimli realizes his grip might be a little hard – yet he finds himself unable to loosen it just yet.

He needs the reassurance, now more than ever.

Of course, he saw the mace, did realize what danger it could – _would_ – pose to Legolas’ life. It is only now, though, now that he sees how much it has done to his stronger, thicker bones, which were partly shielded by his helmet where the elf had worn but leather armour-

“I did not- … I am sorry the sight hits you quite so hard, meleth nín,” Legolas hesitantly whispers. Gimli wishes he could correct him, too shaken still to speak. “I had thought that, since you are a dwarf- … it was stupid, please forgive me. Just… know, that I am not repelled by the scar. I told you, I-”

“This is not about me,” the redhead finally manages to growl harshly. “I cannot- … don’t you realize? What that blow would have done to _you_?”

“Of course I do,” Legolas answers softly, apparently fully at ease with the implication. Comprehension now colours his smooth voice. “But it never reached me. Gimli – if you ask of me to understand why you threw yourself between me and that mace, surely you must know that I would rather have taken it myself than ever have it reach you, no matter the impact on my health. I would rather give my life than see you hurt – and is that not a sentiment we share?”

Gimli forces himself to focus on the soft pulse underneath his cheek.

Legolas is _alive_.

And he is right, they both made choices for the same reason.

Yet-

Now that he has seen the extent of what catastrophe Legolas being hit would have been he needs a few more moments to convince himself his One is alive, and well – better than himself even.

Slowly he loosens the white-knuckled grip on the elf’s slender shoulders (and he is terribly sorry for the bruising it surely will cause), wrapping his arms around the older one’s long torso instead. Legolas returns the desperate embrace without hesitation, holding him just as close.

(Gimli is not the only one to need reassurance, it seems.)

“Meleth nín… thanks to you, I am alive and whole,” the blonde attempts to reassure him, yet his own arms stay as tightly wrapped around him-

“I- … Legolas,” Gimli makes himself ask, “the scar – do you really not mind it?”

“I do not,” the elf answers firmly. Truthfully.

“I am… it will always remind me of how I almost lost you,” he warns his beloved, deep voice heavy with the gravity of this statement.

Legolas hums softly, the sound vibrating in his chest. The dwarf presses his face even closer, listens to the heart beating the rhythm to the beautiful tune. This – is home.

“And it will always remind me of how you saved me. Of how much you gave without hesitation, so that I would not be harmed.”

And what could Gimli say to that?

“I love you.”

“And I love you, my star,” the blonde whispers into his hair, voice as gentle as ever. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Gimli chuckles, slowly forcing his arms to let go of the prize held within them. “Help me put my tunic back on?” And there is no shame in asking for help, not from Legolas. Never from Legolas. “I am afraid I feel a little weak in the knees after this last… realization.”

Legolas stays in his embrace for a few more blissful moments, before reaching for the fresh clothes he has brought to the bathing chambers. With a soft smile dancing around his pale lips he assists the younger one in putting them on, before pulling him to his feet. Easily he wraps his arm around the broad shoulders, supporting the dwarf on their way back to the chamber he woke in. (Gimli is not about to question the sudden permission to walk, lest it be withdrawn again.)

“Legolas,” he asks lowly, after a few minutes of making their slow way down the corridors in silence, “what do we do now?”

The elf hums wordlessly in answer, his slender arm providing the younger one with the strength he is lacking after having slept for so long. “The Lady requested for a council to be held after King Thorin’s coronation. We are… waiting for the caravans, which left but hours after the last orc was slain. Once the dwarves of Erebor have returned there will be a feast, and when the King under the Mountain sits on his rightful throne once more we shall discuss our next moves. There is time. We have… we have so much time.”

His voice is husky – the reason for which Gimli does not need to ask for.

The last time… so much had depended on their speed. Every day the Ring had continued to exist more people had died, and the risk of Frodo and Sam being found and killed had risen. Every battle had been one too many, every lost moment one too much.

Now they had so many years-

“We will take care of it,” Gimli answers after minutes of silence, voice no less husky than his beloved’s, heavy with the same emotions. “We have time, we have resources… and they will all be save. Frodo, Sam, Bilbo… Boromir… _Aragorn_ … none of them will have to suffer. And everything else – will sort itself out. _The crownless again shall be king_.”

The elf hums in soft agreement.

“And we will not have to sit idly and wait until the caravans arrive.”

Gimli squints, darting his long-limbed beloved a suspicious glance.

“Oh? How so?”

Legolas, it appears, knows very well when to avert his deep blue eyes. “Many problems still remain unresolved. Gandalf’s… unexpected helpers will need to be investigated” any attempts to interrupt and aks are being ignored, much to the dwarf’s frustration, “in a few days your renegade dams are due to arrive with the escort Elrond provided, the rumours circulating in Dale are most ridiculous and should be taken care of. Haldir heard me give an answer to Lord Dáin’s question in Khuzdul, during the battle, even though he has not confronted me on it yet – oh, and we need to look after him, too.” Gimli feels his heart break again, reminded of his brave cousin’s death- “Young Thordis has been asking after you at least twice a day. I will need your help with making my father claim Caleth as his daughter. You still owe Beorn a story.”

He does, doesn’t he? And what a story it will be-

“And, the most important: Someone has to take care of Bilbo and Thorin.”

Gimli pauses mid-step, frozen. “Wait. Are you telling me they still haven’t- … Are you _kidding_ me? Even we managed to get our acts together, and they are still pining after each other??”

Legolas nods, an amused smile playing around his pretty lips.

“Well, we shall have to change that. No matter all my good intentions not to meddle, I already blew those when I helped the boys along. No, this will not do! In Mahal’s name, we will make that coronation a wedding or at least a courtship celebration – that much we owe Dáin!”

The elf chuckles softly, cocking his head.

“That is as good an excuse as any,” he grins, “we can pin it all on honouring your cousin’s memory!”

Gimli glowers, enraged-

No.

“You are right – we should. He would have liked that.”

“I believe so,” the elf agrees softly and the dwarf deflates.

Oh, Dáin – why? Why did they have to sacrifice either Dáin or Haldir? No matter their choices… it is not fair.

Why those two?

“Perhaps the Valar admire them so much they wished to have one come to them?” Legolas whispers, apparently well aware of what the dwarf is thinking.

“Perhaps,” Gimli croaks, unwilling to let the tears threatening to spill fall. It is a nice thought…

“Come,” the blonde coaxes. “The others will be waiting.”

Nodding, the dwarf takes a deep breath and allows his friend to lead him back to the chamber he woke up in.

Said room is already overflowing with noise and chaos.

A large, dark table has been hauled in, and the amount of dishes piled up on the surface is almost ridiculous. A number of dwarves and elves is lounging in different chairs and – in the cases of the princes – on the bed, and Bilbo occupies himself with swatting away any straying hands and quick fingers.

“I told you, no pinching before they are back! Go occupy yourselves with emptying the ale casks, you ought to be thirsty after so long without!”

“But it smells so delicious,” Ori whines, only to have his fingers hit by a wooden spoon moving so fast even Legolas would have had a hard time dodging it.

“Well, of course it does!” Bilbo replies indignantly. “Bombur and I spent _hours_ in the kitchen!”

“That you did,” might-be-Elladan snickers, with an unmissable teasing undertone to his voice. “We almost thought you fell into the pots or barrels.”

“No barrels!” Bofur whines from almost inside his tankard, the tips of his moustache dripping with ale.

“We agreed not to talk of that _ever_ again!” Dwalin immediately shouts before anyone has the chance to join the miner in his complaints. Nodding all around the room, except for a few confused – and very curious – elves. Thranduil snickers openly, which earns him a dark look from Thorin, who instantly receives a loud smack with Bilbo’s spoon when absentmindedly reaching for a pastry.

“Ow! Bilbo! I am-”

“I don’t _care_ whether you are King or not, _no pinching before they are here_!”

“But Bilbo-”

“Don’t you dare try that with me, Thorin Oakenshield, or you can go sit with your nephews! You are no better than them, really!”

Thranduil is cackling now, and young Thorin Stonehelm, who has been pulled to the bed by Fíli and Kíli, looks quite lost.

Gimli takes a happy breath and leans against Legolas’ slim body where they have stopped on the threshold. No matter the never-ending bickering and shouting, the mood is exuberant (if tinged with tones of grief and relief alike). His continued unconsciousness, it seems, prevented his friends and family from celebrating the won battle, and honouring the fallen at the same time. Dwarves tend to eat and drink themselves into stupidity the moment the dead have been buried… the songs will only be sung until the funerals draw to a close, and for one day after. (Easily he remembers the day the returning dwarves of Erebor had sung for their fallen King, no matter how many weeks had already passed since he had been returned to the stone.) Each people has come up with its own ways to cope, he assumes, remembering the lament sung for Gandalf in Lothlorien.

Apropos Gandalf…

The old coot is once again sitting in a corner, apparently undetected by the occupants of the room (how does he _do_ that?), and happily sending smoke arrows flying (if slowly) towards the ceiling. His eyes find Gimli’s without hesitation and he winks, before averting his gaze once again and staring off into the smoke.

The dwarf sighs, fondly shaking his head. No matter his meddling, it warms Gimli’s heart to see him like this – Gandalf the Grey, with all his burdens and worries, but still sleeping so much easier than Gandalf the White ever did.

Another pair of eyes finds his, then, dark as his own, and without a warning Glóin takes off towards the door, shoving both his brother and his King unceremonially out of the way.

“Gimli, my lad!”

“‘Adad,” he smiles, steadying himself and accepting the familiar head-butt with as much grace as can be expected in his state.

Óin comes right behind him, and within moments Gimli finds himself being pushed from one to another, sometimes being hugged, twice greeted the elven way, and more often than not head-butted hard enough to make Legolas – who follows after him like a protective puppy, and it is ridiculously endearing – wince.

Thranduil is the last one to get his hands on the time-traveller and he pulls him against his chest, whispering something that sounds suspiciously like _ion_ into his ear (everything was so much _easier_ when the hatred between elves and dwarves could still be relied on-) before skilfully manoeuvring him into a chair located at the centre of the table. Legolas takes the one to his right and Glóin – loudly – fights his way through Dwalin, Bifur and Kíli to claim the one to his left.

Across the table Thorin is sinking into his own chair, eyes hungrily roaming over the waiting food, and Bilbo fondly rolls his eyes.

“What would you like to drink, Gimli?”

“No ale,” Legolas immediately demands, which has Dwalin go up like one of Gandalf’s firecrackers.

“He is more than well enough for ale!” he blusters, “Has not taken any pain medication for, well, weeks, and he is a dwarf! We can always-”

A blow across the head – coming from Óin, by the looks of it – interrupts him and as the two cousins delve into a fiery discussion Bilbo rolls his eyes once more.

“So?” Even though he is clearly looking at Gimli his spoon hits true when Thorin attempts sneaking a small meat pie onto his plate.

“Ow!! They are here, obviously! So why can’t I have one?”

Bilbo does not even dignify the sulking King with an answer, patiently waiting for the time-traveller’s choice.

The redhead shoots his hovering One a nervous glance.

“Uhh… water will be fine.”

As Legolas relaxes visibly (stupid, worrying elf!) Bilbo nods and, with a few shooing motions, efficiently sends Kíli off to fetch some even as he thwarts another of Thorin’s attempt to pinch a meat pie.

The King crosses his strong arms and pouts, before sighing. As he straightens in his chair everyone falls silent. (Huh, that is an unexpected development.)

“We are all relieved to see you sit with us, Gimli,” he softly says, eyes so very sincere. “Without you and Prince Legolas… the lives of my sistersons were saved by you, as was my own. I will forever be in your debt.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gimli murmurs, now the one to roll his eyes. Easily he ignores the shocked whispers. “You are family. I never forgave myself for not coming along… even though that was not really due to a choice of my own.” (Just as skilfully as he did ignore the whispers, his father ignores his glower. Blast.)

Thorin inclines his head, a small smile playing around his lips. “Family indeed.” He relaxes, then, and even as he sets the King aside for the evening a new burden appears to settle onto his shoulders. “You were… informed, I presume, of what happened during the battle?”

“I know about Bofur’s and Fíli’s injuries, and about D-Dáin,” he replies, clinging to the delicate hand that finds his underneath the table and doing his best not to look at Thorin Stonehelm’s wince.

“There will be enough time to explain everything later,” Thorin Oakenshield says, but it is as much as a question as it is a statement, and Gimli nods. For a moment, the King finds its way back into Thorin’s blue eyes. “Then let us feast – let us celebrate our victory, and commemorate those who offered their lives so that it might be achieved! Akrâzul marâd!”

A fierce roar answers him, and together the dwarves, elves and the hobbit raise their tankards to honour the dead.

Tonight, there will be a feast.

Tomorrow, their songs of mourning can join the elves’ laments so that the fallen may be honoured as their customs request.

 

_TBC_


	38. There was mourning and weeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **38\. There was mourning and weeping**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 14: Fire and Water_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Soo… 2 chapters in 2 weeks. Yaaay :D
> 
> It’s a little clumsy, I’m afraid… but I hope you’ll enjoy it anyway.

### 38\. There was mourning and weeping

“Soo…” Fíli drawls, staring at Gimli with his single eye, a thick scar running across where the other should be (and isn’t that a disconcerting sight), his lips twitching with mischief, “does Legolas enjoy the… _implications_ of your new scar as much as Kíli enjoys those of mine?”

Implications? What-

Oh. Right. Dwarves, scars. _Nothing that excites me more than the knowledge that no foe would make it past your strength and ax should you stand to protect me-_

…

_Right._

With all his might he fights down the blush threatening to set his cheeks on fire, raises an eyebrow.

“I have no interest whatsoever in the state of your sexual relationship,” he drawls, gleefully watching Thorin pale from the corner of his eyes. “Nor do I have any intention of ever informing you of mine.” Now Thranduil, who is sitting next to his son, and Glóin are the ones to blanch. “Besides… what would you do if I gave you any details? Could you live with the images?”

Both Fíli’s and Kíli’s eyes widen almost comically, then, which allows for a small smile to slip onto the lips of Dáin’s son.

Bilbo shakes his head and sighs in fond exasperation. “Boys!” he chides, almost gently, and the princes mumble unintelligible apologies, heads lowered-

What in Mahal’s name is going on here? They could not have reacted faster if their – admittedly fearsome – mother had chastised them!

Legolas leans close, his mouth next to Gimli’s ear as if by accident. “ _They treat him like an uncle already. A plot, I believe, to help speed up the... situation_ ,” comes flowing from his pale lips in whispered Sindarin.

(Gimli absolutely refuses to acknowledge the shiver treacherously running down his spine when the warm breath dances across the shell of his ear, for what is a dwarf to do with their One so close, so tempting?)

Humming in understanding he turns to (once more) take in the beautiful sight of his beloved, leaning into his touch.

So much that he has missed, so much sorrow he has put his elf through-

“You are here now,” Legolas murmurs, apparently having realized what is bothering him.

Giving the older one a grateful smile he sighs, reaches for his water. “What would I do without you?”

The deep blue eyes are sincere even as the blonde teases gently, “Be bored out of your mind I imagine, with no one to tease.” Both of them know the real answer to that question and neither wishes to dwell on it.

“Oy!” Bofur shouts from his place next to Bombur, who is currently occupied with devouring a worryingly large portion of the roasted meat – ridiculously fast, “stop makin’ starry eyes at each other – ye’re being way too cheesy! Young Thorin here’s claimed Hanar’s the unbeaten champion at catching food in the Iron Hills – I want a competition, let’s see whether he can best our Bombur!”

Immediately the present dwarves erupt into roaring cheers, with the elves looking on with trepidation and Bilbo fondly rolling his eyes.

Quickly Bofur and Thorin Stonehelm (who appears to be blissfully distracted from the loss of his father for the moment) negotiate the details, with Balin swiftly drawing up a small contract and Nori running the pool.

Gimli hums contently and lets his eyes travel across the table in search of a fruit tart.

“You do not wish to place a bet?” Legolas inquires, eyebrows raised, even as he pinches a bottle of wine right from his father’s slender fingers. “During our quest you were always the first to make a wager, even though I have to admit Merry and Pippin were only too happy to join you in your… gambling.”

“So you get to drink?” Gimli grumbles as he leans back, tart safely in his grasp, watching his elf pour himself a generous amount of the Dorwinion wine.

“I believe I deserve that, after all the desperation of the past weeks,” the blonde answers blithely, and the dwarf sighs, deciding a tankard of ale is not worth fighting with his beloved.

“I do not care to make a wager because I have seen this competition before, which would make my participation both cheating _and_ boring.”

Chuckling softly Legolas worms his arm around Gimli’s shoulders and leans against the backrest of his elven-sized chair (Balin surely knows his craft) as well. He does not appear to realize when his fingers find their way to tangle into the dwarf’s braids, and the redhead has no intention of stopping him.

Letting his gaze travel across the chamber he takes in the flying food and Bombur and Hanar, sitting next to each other, rising to catch as many pieces as they can. Half of the Company are keeping count, the other half is throwing, and everyone is cheering. Loudly. Bilbo is tearing into his stew, happily ignoring the commotion around him, and Thranduil is drinking with Thorin. Elladan and Elrohir have moved to sit with the princes and have, apparently, put their money on different contestants. Tauriel is trying her best to comfort Caleth, Haldir, Faervel and Ciril – who appear to be rather distraught by the chaos and noise – while trying heroically to hide her own laughter.

And Legolas… is resting his chin on Gimli’s broad shoulder, all the while humming gently.

A smoke bat hits his nose and when the dwarf turns to look at Gandalf the old coot is smiling, deep eyes twinkling merrily – more content than Gimli has ever seen him.

Rolling his eyes with a fond smile of his own the redhead motions for the wizard to sit with him, and a few moments later the Grey Pilgrim sinks down into Glóin’s abandoned seat, looking ridiculously comfortable in the dwarven-sized chair.

“I heard you sent… help, during the battle?” the time-traveller inquires softly, letting the noise of the competition drown out their conversation to any dwarves – even though he sees Bilbo, Thranduil and Tauriel turn their heads, clearly attempting to listen more or less subtly.

Curious as cats, the whole lot of them.

Gandalf hums contently, breathing another smoke bat across the room and being very much _not_ forthcoming with answers.

Rolling his eyes in fond exasperation (more exasperation than fond) once more the redhead draws his head towards first one shoulder, than the other, until the joints in his spine crack. “The whistle – was that you?”

“Indeed,” the old coot hums, intently following his bat as it wings its way across the chamber, smacking into the back of Thranduil’s head.

“What-”

“So whatever came out of the Mountain was your doing?”

“So it seems,” Gandalf murmurs, happily ignoring Thranduil’s indignant glare.

“And – what _was_ it?” No matter his fondness for the blasted wizard, his patience is slowly but surely wearing thin.

“Rodents,” Thorin answers, suddenly raising his gaze from his hard-won meat pie. “Apparently he found them in the depths of the old mines, which were abandoned even long before the dragon came. We know not what _exactly_ they are” here he glowers at the wizard “since Tharkûn refused to provide me with more details, no matter my request to know what dwells in _my Mountain_ , but apparently they are no danger to us.”

“They did aid us in our battle against the orcs and goblins,” Bilbo softly reminds him, before turning to face Gimli. “As I was informed, there is a huge river which rises somewhere near those abandoned mines. That is where they live. Since they do not resemble any known animal we have no idea what to call them, or even what they might be, really, but they have not damaged the Mountain in any way since they came here – Bofur checked.” Here he darts Thorin a sharp glance, who returns it with stubborn arrogance. Sighing, the hobbit continues: “ _Whatever_ they are, they do us no harm and helped fight against the foe threatening to take Erebor. Clearly, they prefer us to the orcs and goblins – they cannot be so bad.”

“We called them aznân-atmun, for now,” Bifur grunts, leaning against the wall behind Gandalf. “While we do not understand them, like the wizard seems to, they do listen to us – to an extent.”

Aznân-atmun – darkness-dwelling. Fits.

“They appear to have kept the tunnels clean from anything else that might have made it in through the river,” Dwalin adds gruffly, falling into a chair. “We are keeping them for now – they are useful, and ready to fight for their – our – home. Maybe they can be trained to attack at a certain signal. We could forge simple armour for them, which still allows them to move freely.”

“It would not be the first time we dwarves found shield-brothers in animals,” Bifur mutters quietly, and Dwalin gives him a dirty grin.

“Found himself a friend among those aznân-atmun, he did,” he murmurs. “Good thing, too – it is one of the largest, saved his life in the battle. Has now got a large scar down its back and one leg less – he called it Oddr.”

“Radagast also befriended one of the aznân-atmun,” Gandalf adds blithely, the Khuzdul word falling from his lips worryingly easily, “Núranil. He will return to Mirkwood with him, I believe, together with Hallvadur until Haldir is ready to take care of him.” With that he raises and leaves the room, too quickly for any of them to stop him.

“Wait- … what?”

“Núranil – friend of the deep,” Legolas murmurs, and, well, Gimli may not understand Quenya all that well, but a translation of the name is certainly _not_ one of the most pressing matters!

“But- … Oddr? Radagast? Hallvadur? _Haldir?_ He kind of lost me…” he redhead sighs. Though Gandalf always does that kind of thing, doesn’t he?

“Bifur was part of the teams sent down to the mines to examine them,” Thorin explains grumpily. “When they came back without him, Bofur said he recognized an aznân-atmun, which had jumped between him and an orc blade he would not have been fast enough to dodge or parry. They are worryingly intelligent… but we know not what they are, and they must have lived under the dragon’s spell for many years, decades even. Chances are, they have some magic of their own now. Anyway, Bifur found Oddr’s wound infected, so he brought him up to Óin. The two kind of… connected, I guess, without a better word for it. It makes sense, in a way. Bifur would be the dwarf to understand someone who has no words to talk to him.”

Nodding slowly, Gimli cocks his head. “And these aznân-atmun – where are they now?”

The King shrugs. “They returned to the old mines. Those are exhausted anyway, so the rodents do no harm down there. Since the boys are still not well enough to take up their training, Dwalin seems to be looking for a new challenge. He wants to attempt training them for battle.”

“And – how exactly did Gandalf find them?”

“I would presume he simply marched down there and told them to help him,” Dwalin glowers. “He does that kind of thing.”

Chuckling softly Gimli nods. “He does.” He remembers, now, that the wizard had vanished towards the mines after their council concerning the battle, however the old coot had known that there would be something living down there. “And Nuranell, or whatever?”

“Núranil,” Legolas softly corrects him. “I have no idea what exactly happened, but I would assume Aiwendil found him during or after the battle, perhaps wounded? So he sat down and helped him, and now he is taking him with him. That is the kind of thing _Aiwendil_ does, according to my father.”

“Aiwendil?” Dwalin asks gruffly, eyebrows raised.

“Radagast,” Gimli explains without even thinking about it. “And what was that about Hallvadur?”

“Well, he is kind of heartbroken, as one might expect after Lord Dáin’s death,” Tauriel finally stops pretending not to be listening. “He sought comfort from Marchwarden Haldir, after all he is the one his master fell for, but Haldir is still too shaken to be able to take care of him. So Aiwendil does. He loves all animals, it is no hardship for him.”

“I… see.” Well. Mostly. Shaking his head, Gimli rises. “I- … would like to talk to Haldir, if at all possible? I believe the contest should keep them occupied long enough that I may vanish for a few minutes…”

“Do you wish for me to accompany you?” Legolas asks, already standing as well, his eyes filled with worry.

Gimli gives him a gentle smile, squeezes his fingers. “I am sure Haldir can take care of me just fine. I also doubt he would hesitate to coerce me into returning should he think me too exhausted.”

His One nods, slowly and clearly not very excited about the idea. Still, he allows for the redhead to pull his hand from the slender one holding onto it when the Marchwarden approaches them – face the usual mask – and extends an arm for Gimli to grab, clearly having heard the last few words exchanged. He leads the dwarf towards the door, and a last glance behind reveals Legolas’ staring after them with a frown, Thranduil already sinking into the chair next to his.

Good.

Then they have left the room, standing in the corridor – and Haldir appears to be terribly lost.

“Where did you want to go?” His voice, even though as calm and collected as ever, betrays his uncertainty. Oh Mahal. What has Dáin’s sacrifice done to him?”

“I was thinking of visiting the royal burial chambers,” Gimli murmurs softly, ignoring the flinch following his words. “I wish to pay my respects to my cousin, and to talk to you. Also, while Legolas has seen me in my best and worst of moments, I do not want for him to have to… watch my grief.”

“He would surely help you through it-” Haldir says, agitatedly, betraying even more how shaken he is.

“I do not doubt that,” Gimli interrupts him, voice treacherously gentle. “He has, however, seen me… broken in body so short a time ago. If I can spare him seeing my heart break as well, I will.”

Haldir nods, then, and they walk in silence, down the many halls and corridors. Knowing which paths will be rarely frequented, even more so now that so few dwarves are living within the Mountain, Gimli leads them to the burial chambers without meeting even one of the remaining warriors. The elf offers his strength when the dwarf’s wavers, and when they reach the chambers Haldir hesitates for but a few long moments before entering.

His feet, it seems, find the right plate no matter his hesitation, only to give out when they stop before it-

Gimli has wound his strong arms around the elf’s slim hips before even realizing his shaking, only to sink to the cool ground – pulling the blonde along.

The sharp angular Angerthas written deep into Erebor’s familiar stone pronounce this to be, indeed, the final resting place of Dáin II Ironfoot, son of Náin, son of Grór, Lord of the Iron Hills. Allowing the tears to flow freely Gimli wraps his arms around the trembling elf’s shoulders, providing what comfort he can when Haldir finally gives in to the pressure behind his own eyes.

“My cousin has always been… headstrong,” he says much later, voice raw and hoarse. The elf tenses against him. “Quick to judge and quick to attack, with no patience for diplomacy, and even less for any dealings with elves. What potential he saw in you when he chose you as his shield brother I do not know.” The blonde flinches, but Gimli ploughs on: “He must have thought you an extraordinary warrior, for otherwise – he would not have chosen you, and he would not have given his life for yours.”

Haldir flinches again and tries to pull away.

Gimli, however, does not let him, holding him close even as he finds himself unable to avert his eyes from the plate.

“Why- … your cousin is dead, due to my inattention. How-”

“I doubt you were careless on purpose,” the redhead interrupts him hotly. “Dáin always knew what he wanted, and he never hesitated to do what he thought right, no matter what others would say about the matter. Being his counsellor was dreadful, I imagine. Balin said… he weighed your life more than his own. That was… his choice.” Gimli gulps heavily. Legolas was right- “Had he not acted, you would have fallen.”

Silence, for a few moments.

Then-

“I- … I know. And I will always be grateful. But- _why?_ I do not understand… why would he sacrifice himself for me, an elf? As a dwarf? We never even met- … had it not been for you and my Lady’s command, we might as well have attacked each other!”

Gimli takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. Suddenly he cannot stand seeing the sharp, kingly runes any longer.

In another life, Dáin had been King of Erebor – now he had fallen before her Gates, protecting her none the less with everything he had.

“Because he would have rather died than see you fall on his watch,” he answers honestly, beginning to understand what must have been his cousin’s reasoning. “You were partners, after all, shield-mates – we dwarves do take that seriously.”

“But why go so far?” The smooth voice is still filled with desperate bewilderment, and the dwarf smiles softly.

“Because there was nothing else he could have done to save your life. He stood before the same choice as I did, and in the end we did chose the same.”

“But – that is different!”

“Is it?” Gimli murmurs, well aware that this elf knows so much less about dwarves than _his_ elf.

“Of course it is! You are fëargwedhant-”

Soulbound.

“We are,” Gimli agrees.

“Be we weren’t-”

“Of course not. You were, however, shield-brothers. For us dwarves – that involves the same readiness to offer one’s life in return for the other’s. Do you not think Dwalin would have given his without a moment’s hesitation to save Thorin’s? That Balin would have sacrificed himself for Dori? That Ori would have jumped between Bilbo and a lethal blow? It has nothing to do with Thorin’s position, or any kind of contract. Being shield-mates makes you… well, family.”

They sit in silence for many a minute after that, Haldir clearly shaken – perhaps now even more than before.

“But… why?” he finally asks again, quietly.

Gimli shrugs helplessly.

“Whatever he saw in you before the battle, he must have thought you worth it.” Sighing, he turns until he is able to look into the pale blue eyes, gentle fingers forcing the elf to look at him as well. “Where Legolas and I come from – you died. We were preparing to defend Helm’s deep against ten thousand uruk-hai, with barely 400 warriors on our side, when you arrived with 500 elves, sent by Lord Elrond and your Lady. They broke through the wall at some point, and when we had to retreat… you fell, rendering the retreat possible. Why did you chose, then, to give your life for the men on those battlements?”

His eyes are wide, frightened, but clearer than Gimli has seen them since waking up.

“I- … In that war… Ultimately, you were fighting against the Shadow. Any little victory… would have been worth my life.”

Gimli nods solemnly, cocks his head.

“If you know this, then you must also know that the Ring has been found, and that it was the Enemy who sent the orcs and goblins from Dol Guldur and Gundabad. This, too, was a battle ultimately fought against him. Was it not worth Dáin’s life?”

“I- … do not know-”

“Neither do I,” the redhead agrees, voice hoarse. “But for him, it was. This little victory, and your life as well. That was his choice. No matter how much his death pains me, I must accept that. All I can do now… is honour his memory, help his son as well as I can, and fight the Shadow with everything I have and am. Oh, and help Thorin and Bilbo to finally get their acts together.”

“I- … _what?_ ” Haldir inquires, now clearly rattled.

Gimli gives him the driest smile he can muster.

“Dáin was as much of a prankster as the princes are. After his reaction to the whole Arkenstone disaster… I do believe he would be delighted if we sped up the whole affair in memory of him.”

“If you think so…”

“I do,” Gimli nods, suddenly able to offer him a real smile. “No matter how cheesy and trite that may sound – he would have wanted for us to live on, for _you_ to make the most of the life he gave you. Hallvadur… appears to agree with him on that. You should take care of him – you elves are good with animals anyway, and he is as lost as you are. Take him with you – and do not waste your immortal life a mortal judged worthier than his own.”

“I- … alright.” He takes a deep breath, his voice steadier now. “I will try my best. Whatever you need of me in the coming schemes against the Shadow – you will have it.” A dark promise, sworn over the grave of a shield-mate. “We will defeat him, no matter the cost!”

“We will,” Gimli agrees as darkly. “The cost, however – I will not allow to be as high as it was already.” And that is a promise as well.

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epic!magical!combat!hamster and mysterious!fighting!muskrat FTW… thanks a lot =.=
> 
> Ahh… so. This chapter (at least the first half) turned kind of stupid, no matter my heroic attempts to prevent that, but it was stuck on being… well, stupid. I really did try my best, but Bifur insisted on going and befriending a mysterious!fighting!muskrat (or whatever they are). Bloody fucking awesome.
> 
> And my Sindarin still sucks – sorry for that.
> 
> Also, since the battle went differently than in the movie, Bifur’s ax is still stuck in his head. But I don’t think he minds. A lot.
> 
> Thanks for being so patient with me…


	39. An easy task for them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **39\. An easy task for them**
> 
> _The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 2: The Shadow of the Past_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> Shame on me, eternal shame on me...
> 
> I am so _so_ sorry.  
>  But... I had no inspiration, and I know better than to write when my muse isn't in it :/
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, though!

### 39\. An easy task for them

“ _Many problems still remain unresolved. Gandalf’s… unexpected helpers will need to be investigated, in a few days your renegade dams are due to arrive with the escort Elrond provided, the rumours circulating in Dale are most ridiculous and should be taken care of. Haldir heard me give an answer to Lord Dáin’s question in Khuzdul, during the battle, even though he has not confronted me on it yet – oh, and we need to look after him, too. Young Thordis has been asking after you at least twice a day. I will need your help with making my father claim Caleth as his daughter. You still owe Beorn a story. And, the most important: Someone has to take care of Bilbo and Thorin._ ”

 

Legolas’ list of _tasks_ still left unaccomplished – the matter of Gandalf’s rodent helpers, of course, has been taken care of – in mind Gimli makes his way down towards where the first efforts to rebuild the city of Dale are already underway, Haldir by his side.

It had been a fight of its own, convincing Legolas of allowing him to go with the Marchwarden… but the elven prince had given in when his father had approached him looking for help with whatever matter. (There had been lots of snickering involved, and Gimli had come to the conclusion that he would find out soon enough, and until then simply did not want to know. Especially since Fíli and Kíli appeared to be involved in whatever it was as well…)

“Mithrandir promised that Aiwendil would come to meet us at the edge of the city,” Haldir says, voice slowly returning to the confidence it had once carried.

“Perfect,” Gimli nods. “If you go to meet with him, and convince Hallvadur to accompany you back to the mountain, or wherever you wish to go – which should be easy enough – that will allow me the time to visit Thordis, and see whether I might dissipate her fears, or rather arouse new ones.”

Haldir freezes, forcing the dwarf to stop as well.

“You _are_ aware that Prince Legolas made me promise not to leave you out of my sight, are you not?”

Rolling his eyes Gimli huffs. “And you are aware that I am a warrior of my own right, and that if I am strong enough to walk this distance, to carry my ax – that I can surely be left alone for a few minutes?”

Snorting softly Haldir inclines his head. “I merely wanted to remind you of my… _assignment_.”

Shaking his head the dwarf moves to continue down the path now tread by elf, man and dwarf regularly. (Not to forget the wizards, but they would walk wherever they pleased either way.) “I would never want to force you into making a decision that has you so conflicted” – here the elf snorts again – “which is why Tauriel will take over your _duties_ the moment we part ways. She headed down to Dale yesterday, made messenger to Bard I believe, and promised to meet me at the edge of the city.”

Despite his attempts to downplay it, Haldir’s relief is obvious, and Gimli finds himself torn between exasperation and fondness at his elf’s overprotectiveness. He can understand it, in way – had Legolas been injured that grievously, Gimli would not have let him out of his sight. Ever again.

The rest of the short trek passes in companionable silence, and when they reach the city still carrying clear scars of the battle Tauriel and Radagast are already waiting, locked in a lively discussion. Hallvadur, too, is awaiting them… looking heart-meltingly inconsolable (and morose), as much as is possible for a huge belligerent boar.

Upon hearing the dwarf’s boots hit the ground, however, he raises his head, dark eyes finding Haldir, and the sun appears to rise in his mind.

Really??

It takes Gimli no more than the fraction of a second to come to a decision – namely that Hallvadur’s mood swings are Haldir’s problem, and that he as well might deal with them on his own – and he makes for where Tauriel is standing with _very_ determined steps, granting Haldir barely more than a nod.

“We will find you here when our business with Thordis is done,” he calls back over his shoulder before beating a rather obvious retreat, Tauriel snickering behind him.

“I gladdens me to see you in such good spirits, and steady on your feet once more,” she murmurs after having caught up with him with a few light-footed steps, one long-fingered hand resting on his shoulder. “The many hours I spent watching over your unconscious body at Legolas’ side reminded me more than ever that dwarves are not meant to lie so still, and that you in particular ought to be up and about.”

Reaching for her elegant hand to squeeze it for a moment Gimli hums, not really knowing what to say.

“I am glad to know we have found such great friends in this time as well,” is what he settles on after a few minutes, “people who went through fire and pain with us without hesitation, even though our relationships were not forged by war like those we used to rely on. I… I am also deeply relieved by the knowledge that there are those who would help Legolas through what must have been some of the darkest hours in his long life, despite the clear change in him.”

Gimli knows that they would have been the darkest hours in _his_ life, no matter his age or what Sauron put them through.

Tauriel’s blinding smile is as dazzling as all elves’, and beautiful in a way only his slowly growing regard for Legolas allowed and taught him to appreciate all that time ago underneath the mellyrn.

“Always,” she vows. “Time-traveller or not, Legolas has been my dearest friend for a very long time, and I would not abandon him even if someone tried to force me to. Besides,” here she winks rather cheekily as they are weaving their way through buildings in the middle of reconstruction, and the tents set up to house the new occupants until the houses are truly safe and stable, “I find I rather do like the changes the war and you brought about in Legolas. Please do not get me wrong, I would not wish such a fate as yours on anyone, least of all my best friend… but he has matured in ways that only war and battles teach elves. We are… entirely too innocent otherwise, no matter our years. There is no wisdom to be had about the ways and makings of this world unless one has seen most of them and fought against the darkest ones.”

Humming lowly Gimli bumps his shoulder against her ribcage – the highest he can reach – before nodding.

“Perhaps you are right,” he admits. “One may only act prudently when experienced with the situation and circumstances… which might as well be why Gandalf always appears to be so wise. I doubt there is little he has never done or gotten himself into.”

Tauriel’s laughter is bright and clear, and even though it will never rival the beauty of Legolas’ it gladdens him no less. After all the sombreness he woke up to, and the slightly desperate edge to the dinner and ensuing party his companions hosted, relief lightens the guilt he feels for having worried them thusly whenever the mood is lightened by jokes and jibes once more.

Her hand still resting on his shoulder Tauriel easily steers him through the maze of tents and houses, the residents of what used to be Laketown having left the mountain in favour of pouring all resources and fervour into rebuilding the settlement. A number of farms not situated right at the edge of the lake had escaped Smaug’s wrath, although some had been raided by the arriving orcs and goblins. Apparently Thorin Stonehelm had sent for extra provisions from the Iron Hills, though, which had already arrived; and Gandalf would depart for the Blue Mountains and the Shire in the following days, to accompany the unexpectedly Queen-less caravans and meet the Gamgees, carrying _very_ detailed instructions concerning the necessary seeds, perhaps some live cattle to be brought along, as well as the signing over of Bag End to one Drogo Baggins.

Bilbo, Gimli had been told, had long since decided to stay at Erebor.

He had just forgotten to tell Thorin the real reasons for that decision.

Arrghhh!

It was high time someone took care of that… situation, and if they could pin it on honouring Dáin’s memory – all the better. It _is_ true, after all, that the Lord of the Iron Hills would have enjoyed that-

“Gimin!” a bright voice cries, and Gimli has no more than a moment to adjust his stance before a tiny ball of patched winter clothing and dirty hair comes flying towards him. Catching her with the unerring reflexes and dexterity of a dwarf used to worse than food-fights the time-traveller wraps his arms (not as thick and trained as before his long hours spent sleeping, but still strong, still trustable) around the small body. His blunt fingers no longer feel her small ribs as clearly as they did after having pulled her from the fire, and her face looks healthier as well.

“Thordis,” he rumbles, relieved by the final assurance that she is alright, and well fed at that.

She pulls back, detaching her face from his freshly braided beard (and, oh, but the thought of Legolas’ nimble fingers in his hair sends shivers down his spine-) and staring at him with fierce, tiny eyes.

“You did not come!” she accuses, pushing small, fragile finger against his well-protected chest. “You promised to come, and I called, but you did not!”

His heart heavy with new guilt and at the same time alight with mirth Gimli nods solemnly, carefully setting her down and kneeling in front of her.

“I know that I have neglected my duties, young Lady, and while I could present a defence and justification you are right: I did not honour my promise. Even though I was not able to, I promised, and when you called I did not – could not – come. It is your right, then, to assess my punishment.” He bows his head, barely able to control the twitching of his lips.

Thordis stands in concentrated silence for a few moments, before nodding gravely.

“I want dinner with you!” she declares. “And bring your friend. Leglas?”

Bowing his head once more Gimli rises, standing again. “I shall submit to your wishes, and bring Legolas as well. When would you prefer to see this dinner realized?”

Nodding happily Thordis extends her arms, waiting for him to lift her again, before squinting.

“Realize?” she asks, young voice bright with confusion, her face already returning to its favourite residence deep within the fiery red beard.

“When do you want to do it?” Gimli clarifies, sending Tauriel a warning glare when she threatens to burst into bright pearls of laughter. “I am somewhat restricted by my duties to my King and Kingdom, but if you state your preference I am sure Thorin will see reason.”

Tauriel, the time-traveller then realizes, is no longer the only bystander fighting the laughter threatening to spill. Finna has found her way to where her daughter is still clinging to the dwarf, and Einarr Kolgrim is leaning against a wall that seems to be at least mostly stable. Bard the Bowman, newly appointed (but not yet crowned, and most definitely against his will) King of Dale, too, is watching them with amusement shining in his dark eyes.

“Tomorrow!” Thordis states with a determined nod, “I want dinner tomorrow!”

“Alright,” Gimli chuckles, “that should be possible. I shall arrange for an escort to accompany you to the mountain, then?”

The little girl suddenly draws her most terrible weapon, aiming huge, sad eyes at the dwarf. “You won’t pick me up?”

Closing his eyes in a desperate attempt to withstand the assault the redhead then tries his Mahal best to look at the spot between her eyes instead of into them. “Well, a proper Lady needs a proper escort, doesn’t she?”

Worrying her lower lip Thordis contemplates this for another moment before nodding fiercely. “I want an escott!” she agrees, before turning and flying towards her mother. “I’m a Lady, and I get an escott!” she exclaims happily, and Finna gives Gimli a wide, blinding smile. She watches her daughter dash around the corner, the scars not having been mentioned even once, before stepping closer.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” she murmurs, eyes happy and cheeks red with a deep blush.

Remembering Kíli’s words from a few days before the battle – “That girl has a _huge_ crush on you” – Gimli frowns, humming lowly.

“I hope it is alright for you if my partner joins us?” he then asks, averting his gaze to look at Tauriel instead. “Legolas has come through time with me, and I am sure he will enjoy spending time with such a delightful child – he has always had a soft spot for the young, and since I have robbed him of the opportunity to have children of his own…” Perhaps not the subtlest approach, but dwarves were not made to be subtle; and certainly not when it comes to matters of the heart.

For a moment deep disappointment darkens Finna’s expression, before she brightens again.

“I am glad you have found someone not even time could separate you from,” she then declares honestly. “Also, I am sure my daughter would love to exploit any wish for children your chosen might have.”

Chuckling softly Gimli nods. “Legolas will be delighted,” he assures her with a wide grin, before allowing Bard to lure him and Tauriel away.

“I presume Prince Legolas has already approached you on the matter of the rumours surrounding yours and his deeds?”

Sighing the dwarf nods once more. “He mentioned them, as well as their ridiculousness.”

Bard snorts, shaking his head. “They are truly ridiculous,” he easily agrees. “After your and Lady Tauriel’s” – here Gimli chortles and Tauriel sighs in defeat – “efforts to help after the dragon came, you were, well. Lauded as heroes.” He shakes his head again. “After the information about your time-travel reached them… I would rather not recount what stories I heard. They reached from you being wizards on a quest to defeat all evil to you having been sent by Morgoth himself to resurrect Sauron, and also covered everything in between.”

His eyebrows steadily scaling his forehead Gimli darts Tauriel a dirty glance. “I understand why Legolas would not have bothered, considering how he was a little preoccupied with my condition, but why did you not think to mention this?”

Tauriel snorts. “And deprive King Bard” – now he is the one to sigh in defeat – “of the opportunity to inform you himself?”

“Anyway,” Bard hastily interjects, “there has also been talk about your part in the burning of Laketown, and the deaths of so many, considering that you must have known – claiming to have travelled through time as you did.”

Bowing his head in shame the dwarf closes his eyes, guilt churning deep in his guts. “They are right,” he whispers. “We could have saved them. _I_ could have saved them. But I did not know-”

“Peace, my friend – I know,” Bard calmly interrupts him. “I may not have been much of a warrior or strategist before you lot climbed in through my toilet and woke a dragon, but I have since learned a lot about sacrificing a few to save the many, and I have always known more than I ever wanted about prioritizing. There are many things I would do to put food in my children’s’ bellies – even having been appointed King I do not wish to imagine how hard such decisions may be when it comes to the fate of the whole world. There is little we can do about those whispers, I simply wished to warn you. However, I would like the two of you to give a little speech to shoot down the other rumours?”

“You only want to redirect the attention,” Gimli grumbles, nodding already. After everything Legolas, he and Aragorn have gone through a little speech should not be too bad – the mob of Dale could hardly be worse than a City of dead traitors and criminals… right?

“And perhaps you could inform the Lady of Light about those whispers once she arrives,” Tauriel adds, cheeky smile on her pale lips. “She might be able to address them-”

“I would not wish to trouble her with such trifle,” the dwarf shakes his head. “Alright – you can have your speech. I am sure Legolas will be able to come up with something.” Tauriel snorts once again. “I am, however, afraid that I need to leave now, having left Haldir with Radagast and Hallvadur for such a long time.”

Huffing out a laugh Bard nods. “I would not wish to keep you. Also, I am afraid I have more than enough duties to attend to.” With a rather regretful smile he nods again, before leaving them to step towards a group of men currently occupied with stabilizing a rather fragile looking wall.

Shaking her head in fond exasperation Tauriel leads Gimli back towards where Haldir is still standing, leaning against the huge body of the boar and with the Brown Wizard nowhere to be seen.

Interrupting the silent conversation elf and boar appear to be sharing the two redheads approach, and Haldir raises his head – the first real smile in days on his pale lips.

“Thank you,” he bows his proud head, “for helping me to accept Dáin’s sacrifice, and giving me the courage to allow Hallvadur to approach me in friendship. He is fierce – a true warrior.” The nudge he receives from the boar is clearly affectionate, and most likely supposed to be gentle… as it is, however, the marchwarden stumbles and barely manages to remain standing.

“I see,” Gimli chuckles. “You are most welcome.”

Nodding sincerely Haldir then turns to leave. “Your prince will be worried already. We should return to the mountain, so that I might return you to his care and hopefully escape his wrath.”

Sharing a quick glance Gimli and Tauriel hurry to follow him, neither of them having missed the seriousness in the marchwarden’s voice.

Legolas, it turns out, _was_ worried – he awaits them at the Gates, eyes dark and lips a pale line.

“What happened?”

“Bard approached me,” Gimli tells him, winding his fingers into the silky golden strands of his beloved’s hair and pulling him down to press a kiss against those delicate lips, which does not fail to tempt their corners into rising. “He wants us to give a speech, and address the rumours circulating Dale.”

Nodding Legolas wraps his long arm around the dwarf’s shoulders before squinting. “There was something else.”

Sighing Gimli nods, not even surprised. If there is one person in this world who would always know if he tried to hide something it is his elf. (And his mother. But this is not about her, and anyway – _mothers_. They always know whatever they are not supposed to. Lady Dís is a prime example for that-) “Some of the men… blame us. For letting those that the dragon got to die…”

Pulling him close Legolas kneels, resting his forehead against the younger one’s. “There was nothing we could have done, not at that point. We would have risked making everything so much worse by making such great changes.”

“I know,” Gimli whispers, not averting his gaze from the deep blue eyes for even a moment. “But- … I still- …”

“You still blame yourself,” Legolas whispers softly. “I know. You would. And… so do I. But I still believe that, at that point, it was the best we could do.”

Nodding slowly the dwarf holds his One close for a few more seconds before allowing him to pull away again, slender arm still slung around his strong shoulders.

“Oh, and there is something else – we are having dinner with Thordis tomorrow.”

Legolas raises his eyebrows, pale lips twitching. “We do?”

“Oh yes. And we need to ask Fíli and Kíli for a favour.”

“We do?” the elf asks again, no longer able to fight off the grin.

“We need someone to escort Thordis up here, and make her feel like a proper Lady. I promised her an ‘ _escott_ ’, and if anyone can pull that off it would be the boys.”

His whole face alight with laughter – and what a beautiful sight that is – Legolas pulls Gimli down the corridor, and towards the rooms they are now sharing in the royal wing. “Then an escott she shall have.”

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid chapters _will_ keep coming sporadically... but I'm not giving up on this story. I promise.  
>  But - we made it through most of the action, so I'll mostly be wrapping up threads and holes and... well. The Ring ^^


	40. Even the good plans go astray sometimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **40\. Even the good plans [of wise wizards like Gandalf and of good friends like Elrond] go astray sometimes**
> 
> _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 4: Over Hill and Under Hill_
> 
>  
> 
> \---
> 
>  
> 
> So.  
> I don't like this chapter.  
> Somehow, for me, it doesn't really fit with the story. But. It came out they way it wanted to, and there's no use re-writing it, it'd just do the same all over again.  
> I really hope you guys still like it.
> 
> Also, this is (a little) for Lady Alaniel and Ithurielistic and lilyrose225.  
> There. You got what you wanted. Let me just say, it's _not_ my fault that they didn't cooperate. _Very much_ not my fault.  
>  Hmph.

### 40\. Even the good plans go astray sometimes

“I say we use a closet – do it the old way!”

“But there are no proper closets here, or in Dale. We would have to take them to the Woodland Realm to find a closet that might withstand an angry dwarf’s assault, which I rather doubt would help us in our endeavour.”

“Why’d he be angry? We’re doin’ him a favour!”

“We are talking about the most obstinate dwarf to have ever walked Middle-Earth-”

“Besides, I doubt that _locking him in_ will help his mood a lot.”

“Well, what else are we supposed to do??”

“I know, I _know_ , there is no other option if we want this to happen any time soon – but we should not delude ourselves into believing that either of them will come willingly!”

“Hmph.”

Frowning, Kíli slumps against the wall of the small chamber they have made their strategic office, thick wooden door bolted securely.

Looking up from where he is lounging on the floor Fíli sighs. “Gim is right, Kee. Both Bilbo and Thorin will fight us every step of the way – if this were an easy venture they would have managed without our help long ago. _Looong_ ago. Like, _ages_ ago-”

“Yes, thanks, I got it.” Muttering something unintelligible in his barely existent beard Kíli slides down the wall to plant himself across his brother’s lap, hands straying to places better not mentioned at the first possible opportunity.

Rolling his eyes in a motion that still looks ridiculously regal Thranduil sharply raps his knuckles against the rather unstable wooden table Bofur apparently found somewhere deep in the Mountain during the accounting and removing of the bodies (the poor souls who had been trapped in the mines and tunnels when the dragon had come-) having hobbled down there against all healer’s orders. At least he had made his cousin haul it up here – after swearing Bifur to secrecy of course.

“Boys, please,” the Elvenking gently reprimands the two Princes. “We do not have too much time left, let us use it accordingly.”

“We have a plan, don’t we?” Kíli whines, reluctantly removing his hands from said better not mentioned places.

Dwalin jumps forward with a loud grunt, both palms connecting with one royal head each. “ _That_ is _not_ a _plan_!” he growls, “Have my brother and I taught you _nothing_ after all those years??”

“But-” Fíli attempts to protest only to be interrupted by the frustrated warrior.

“ _Details_ , you dunderheads, details! A concept, a plan, a strategy – is worth _nothing_ unless you have covered as many details and potential weaknesses as possible! You were part of the council before the Battle, did you listen to the Elvenking’s suggestions and indications, the nuances he mentioned you would never have thought of? Did you??”

Both boys’ heads swivel around to stare at a remarkably composed Thranduil with wide eyes, before looking back to Dwalin and nodding fiercely.

“Then why do you call this sorry excuse for an outline a plan, and one that you would be satisfied with?? This? _This_ is how you get _ponies stolen and the single member of your company not able to properly defend himself caught by trolls!!_ ”

Kíli almost whimpers, attempting to crawl into his brother. (Not _that_ way!) Neither of the boys wishes to draw either Balin’s or his brother’s wrath, even less than Thorin’s – Fundin’s sons are _scary_ when angry. (Especially Balin, but that particular truth should better never reach Dwalin.)

Frowning Gimli swats Legolas’ teasing fingers away. “You two can hump each other all night,” he grumbles, darting his One a dirty glance when said fingers return almost immediately. “We are on a schedule, and have gotten nowhere so far.”

“Schedule?” Bofur demands, whittling away at a small block of dark wood. “‘s there any other deadline than us wantin’ the two to finally stop makin’ mooneyes at each other an’ get goin’ instead?”

“Well, of course – those of Elrond’s elves who fished our ‘renegade dams’, as Legolas so eloquently put it, from the Bruinen are due to arrive within the next few days. _With_ said dams. We want this over with before Lady Dís ever sets foot inside this mountain, or do any of you wish to have her intervening?”

Fíli, Kíli and Dwalin pale as one.

Frowning Thranduil looks from them to Gimli.

“You are talking about King Thorin’s sister, are you not?”

“Aye,” the redhead nods.

“Would she… oppose a relationship between her brother and his hobbit?”

 _His_ hobbit. Huh. (Gimli rather thinks of him as _their_ hobbit, as in the Company’s, much like he, Legolas and Aragorn used to think of Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin as _their_ hobbits as well.)

(But he thinks of Legolas as _his elf_ too-)

Grunting Dwalin shakes his head.

“She will adore him, no doubt.”

“…but?”

“But what?”

“Why would her arrival cause problems? Should we not rather wait for her and ask her to assist us-”

“No!” Fíli yells, while Kíli jumps to his feet.

“Mother… should never – and I mean it, _never_ – be involved in any attempt to speed along Thorin’s relationships,” he states, arms crossed.

“She has tried to set him up too many times before,” Dwalin helpfully adds. “Chances are, if Thorin finds out Dís is part of this operation he gives up on his little hobbity dreams and rejects anything Bilbo might ever offer him, simply because she supports the idea.”

Seeing the confusion in the two elves’ beautiful faces Fíli snorts.

“Those she ‘found for him’ were… well, terrible. In every sense of the word. I mean it: Letting mother intervene would mean the end of Bilbo’s and Thorin’s relationship, before it has even begun. They need to be a proper couple before she ever steps inside this mountain. Aw, you were right – we _are_ on a schedule. Let’s do this!”

Nodding, Thranduil finally reaches for the pen and paper he brought. “Alright. Time for a little brainstorming.”

Knotting his eyebrows Fíli climbs to his feet, leaning against the wobbly table, his one eye focussed on the sheet of parchment. “What for?”

Rolling his eyes Thranduil motions for Kíli to come as well. “Do your pranks ever work out?”

“Rarely the way we planned them to,” the younger prince beams unrepentantly, coming to stand next to his brother.

“That’s because you forget about the details all the time,” Dwalin mutters grumpily, sinking down next to Gimli. “Now watch and learn how to plan a proper prank – you should have seen what terror your uncles and mother used to unleash upon the Council when Erebor was it its best, before Thrór fell into madness and Thorin had to grow up and the thrice-cursed worm came.”

Soft disbelief swimming in his pale eyes so similar to Legolas’ the Elvenking accepts the dwarf’s belief in his tactical skill with an incline of his agelessly beautiful head (what is it with all those kings and their endless kingliness??) before tapping the pen against the desk. “So, we are clear that we want to lock them into a room until they have admitted their feelings for each other?” He repeats, waiting for the series of nods that follows. “Perfect. Are there any locations you could suggest for those instances?”

“His personal rooms?” Bofur proposes, but Gimli shakes his head.

“Riddled with secret passageways,” he explains, only to find himself on the receiving end of six wary stares. “What? Dáin explored them _all_!”

“That chamber in the library, the second office I believe Balin called it?”

“What about _Thorin’s_ office?”

“Bifur said he found a dark chamber down in the ruby mines, ‘t was a storage room I think-”

“Well, it should have a bed, or at least chairs-”

“We do not need them to pounce on each other, just to finally _talk_.”

“But we wouldn’t mind a little pouncin’ either, right?” Bofur grins, waggling his eyebrows.

“Of course not,” Legolas purrs, grinning in that dangerously feral way that sends shivers down Gimli’s spine and has his soul vibrate against the elf’s. Oh, that bastard knows _exactly_ what he is doing!

“We are simply defining the requirements for the room,” Thranduil explains, still contently calm. Apparently he received specific instructions from Gandalf before the wizard departed for the Shire-

“Well, it should be at least comfortable enough that we can leave them locked inside for a few hours.”

“That means we need access to a bathroom.”

“And food!”

“Fíli is right, Bilbo is a hobbit. Brining food should make it easier for us to earn his forgiveness afterwards,” Gimli grins.

“Is there any way to get hold of strawberries?”

“Oh, and cream!”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Kee, and concentrate on the matter at hand!”

“Could we task Bombur with preparing something, enough to last a hungry hobbit and an angry dwarf king for at least a day?”

“Sure thing,” Bofur grins excitedly, “he’ll be more than happy to cook up a good ‘n proper meal!”

“What about firewood? We do not want them to freeze to death after all.”

“A room with a proper fireplace then-”

“They could always warm each other!”

“Kee! That is beside the point!”

“If they were at a point where they would voluntarily cuddle to keep each other warm we would not need to intervene.”

“What else?”

“When do we want to do it?”

“We will need to find a day without important appointments.”

“And before Dís arrives!”

“…tomorrow?”

“Probably our best chance,” Dwalin agrees, frowning. “Let’s hope they will need no more than one day and possibly the night, otherwise we might be in trouble…”

“Let Balin and Fíli take care of any political matters should they arise.”

“Do we assign guards?”

“Of course – someone to tell them they are stuck in there until they got their acts together, and let them out in case of an emergency.”

“So we tell them? Isn’t that against our not- _too_ -much-meddling-rules?”

“How about we imply a few things and leave the rest up to them?”

“That means you will have to take first watch, meleth nín,” Legolas gleefully declares. “Considering that you probably knew Dáin best after all those years he was your King, you would be the best choice to act in his stead.”

“Wait, why can’t we do that?” Kíli pouts.

“Because every single person in this room is subtler than the two of you,” Dwalin snorts. “Even Bofur.”

“Oy!” the miner exclaims cheerfully, munching away at some dried meat he must have pilfered from the kitchens.

“Do we have a room yet?”

“No, _someone_ keeps getting distracted-”

“Boys,” Thranduil reprimands the princes gently, averting his gaze with a barely hidden sigh when Kíli withdraws his wandering fingers from Fíli’s backside once more. “So, where do we put them?”

“I vote for that office in the library. The desk is a little… well, wobbly, but the chairs seemed to be fine, and at least not completely uncomfortable. Also, there is a little bathroom which – according to Ori – appears to be in working order.”

“Also, as far as I know there are no secret passageways, the office of the second librarian is not important enough for that.”

“Bofur, will Bombur be able to cook up enough to last them for a day until tomorrow morning?”

“Don’t forget, we need stuff that can be eaten cold as well!”

“Bombur’ll love the challenge,” the miner assures them, grinning broadly. “He’s way too underemployed, just bein’ in charge of cookin’ for every dwarf in this mountain and everythin’.”

Snorting softly Thranduil nods, penning down the agreed-upon details.

“Who will be getting the strawberries?” Fíli asks cheerfully, only for Kíli to add:

“And the cream??”

“Perfect, thank you for volunteering. The princes take care of procuring the treats-”

“Oy!-”

“-anything else that still needs to be bought? Merchants from all over Middle-Earth will be arriving within the next few months, with the incoming caravans of dwarves and settlers of men… at this time, however, the choice of goods is rather poor. I could send Tauriel to my realm, of course, but I would rather not force her to ride through the night.”

“I’ll go ask Bombur what he’ll need, and find ye then, alright?”

“Perfectly, yes.”

“Now, to the hardest question still left unanswered: _How_ do we get them there?”

“Not together, that much is for sure,” Dwalin rumbles. “They will never not find up what we are up to if they get the chance to talk about it before the lock is secured!”

“Bilbo first, and Thorin second? If we lock Thorin in and then bring Bilbo, he might try taking the door down once we open it again. Even though I fear Bilbo might be _rather adept at sneaking out_ , I think Thorin’s mood is the greater danger.”

“Thorin second,” Gimli agrees. “How do we lure him there?”

“Dwalin, do you think we could ask Balin for help?”

The bald warrior shakes his head. “I doubt it. While he would certainly enjoy seeing them together, and does not mind a little meddling when it is clearly for the best, he will refuse being a part of said meddling.”

“I volunteer,” Thranduil says, voice like honey and smile dangerous. “If I request help with a diplomatic matter, from king to king, I am sure he will comply.”

“’tis a real good thing yer workin’ with us now,” Bofur beams, munching on some dried fruit (most likely part of the stores brought by the woodland elves). “How do we get Bilbo to let us lock him in?”

“Food?”

“Nah, he’ll smell a rat right away.”

“Bofur is right, what about Ori? Is there any chance of corrupting him to support our cause?”

“I doubt it, Ori is too… well, honest to take part in such schemes,” Fíli shakes his head. “Too bad Tharkûn already left for the Shire!”

“What about the boys? He adores them, doesn’t he?”

“Damn right he does!” Kíli exclaims, puffing out his chest, only to receive a swat against his pretty head by Dwalin.

“Perhaps we could ask Bard for help? Bilbo likes him.”

“No, I doubt that he would be able to make time for that.”

“And his children? Tilda is probably too young to understand, but Bain and Sigrid should be able to do the deed.”

“He likes Sigrid, I have seen him trying to comfort her during one of the funerals…”

“Who convinces her of our plan?”

“I will,” Dwalin volunteers. “She cannot say no to me.” Even though his grin is rather toothy his fondness for children is clearly visible in the softness in his eyes.

“Who do we ask if she says no, or cannot spare the time?”

“Bain?”

“And if he refuses as well?”

“Caleth?” Legolas suggests. “I can ask her, should it be necessary. Bilbo sat by her sickbed a few times, before her wounds healed, when I was still- …” The sudden darkness in his gaze prompts Gimli to tightly wind his fingers through the elf’s long ones, bumping his shoulder against the slender one. The older time-traveller gives him a thankful smile, even as Thranduil nods and writes this down.

“We have Bofur in charge of the food, and the Princes of any treats they might be able to get hold of. Dwalin approaches Sigrid and Bain, Legolas asks Caleth if necessary. Fíli informs Balin of our plan, just in case, and I myself am responsible for luring Thorin to the chamber tomorrow morning.” (It shows, how much must have taken place while the time-traveller lay unconscious, all titles and distanced politeness gone-) “Gimli and my son take first watch, until noon?”

Nodding, the redhead agrees, fondly amused by the Elvenking’s easy presumption that Legolas will go wherever he does.

“Who takes over?”

“We could-”

“No, we cannot,” Fíli interrupts his brother, “considering that I am in charge of helping Balin with any matters concerning the King.”

“Also, we will _not_ let the two of you stand guard _together_!”

“Why not?” Kíli whines.

“Ponies? _Trolls_?!”

“Dwalin’s right, the two of ye’ll only distract each other,” Bofur helpfully agrees.

“But- but you let Gimli and Legolas stand guard together too!” the younger prince complains, only to be silenced by the bald warrior’s incredulous look.

“Gimli and Legolas are also _far less likely to hump each other in the bloody corridor_!”

Thranduil’s eyes widen as he gasps for air, clearly having fallen into the fateful trap of mental images-

“What about Bofur and Kíli?”

“No, they would only end up neck-deep in whatever nonsense they could come up with in a few hours.”

“Oy!!”

“Dwalin, do you feel up to standing guard with Kíli?”

The answering grin is toothy and rather dangerous.

(Kíli’s reaction is a whine.)

“Perfect, what ‘bout the night in case they haven’t managed to get their shit together ‘till then?”

“Fíli, would you take first watch with me? Considering that you are the future King of this realm, I am sure there are many matters we might discuss,” Thranduil offers.

“I would love that,” the blonde agrees, darting his brother a mean smile when the younger one realizes he will have to spend the first half of the night alone.

“That only leaves one shift… Bofur, would you be alright with asking Bifur to sit with you?”

“He’ll be excited,” the miner agrees, nibbling away at a fruit pie-

“Wait, where did you get that??”

“Only one matter left open then,” Thranduil happily ignores the dark-haired prince, “Who takes care of preparing the room, making sure everything is in working order?”

“I will,” Gimli rumbles.

“Perfect!” Long-fingered hands lay down the piece of parchment carrying a neat plan, every task and dedicated dwarf or elf in charge written down in the Elvenking’s beautiful flowing script. “What are we waiting for?”

The following day, it turns out, is all about waiting.

Everyone takes care to see their tasks fulfilled, and Sigrid agrees easily enough to help them. (According to Dwalin, her father is as annoyed as everyone else by Bilbo and Thorin’s endless feet-dragging, and complains about it after every meeting with the dwarven King he has to sit through.) Bombur is more than happy to provide them with food, no matter his other duties in the kitchens, and the boys actually manage to get hold of a few early strawberries (grown in some kind of hothouse, apparently) as well as cream. (They might have kept half of the latter to themselves, with how Kíli was grinning, but none of the others wished to know more.)

Bilbo follows Sigrid easily enough, they girl’s insinuation that she might need help with some matter she does not dare approach anyone else about apparently all prompting the hobbit needs.

Nori, who is now part of their conspiracy as well – having snuck after Fíli and Kíli when they went for the strawberries and cream, and demanding answers afterwards – slinks down the corridors the pair takes, reporting back to them as soon as Sigrid has opened the door for Bilbo to step through, jumping out and slamming it shut the moment the hobbit has entered the office.

Bifur, who was waiting just around the corner, takes care to lock it from the outside, and stands guard next to it until – barely five minutes later – Thranduil turns up with Thorin in tow. The dwarf with the ax still lodged in his head opening the door like a servant grants them a majestic eyebrow raised in confusion, but otherwise the King complies. Thranduil manages to lure Thorin into the office without stepping inside himself, _or_ the hobbit escaping, and _really_ , they should have _known_. Or at least grown suspicious-

Bifur and Dwalin have bolted the door shut the moment it has slammed close, and Gimli happily steps into place before it.

After giving his thanks to Sigrid the other dwarves take their leave (Thranduil being the one to accompany the girl back to Dale, having agreed to meet with Bard for a few hours) and the time-traveller eases into a comfortable position, his strong back against the door.

Legolas sinks down the opposite wall, eyes drawn to Gimli’s arms, and then-

 _Boom_.

Thorin’s body slams against the door with a force that makes the elf wince in sympathy.

The door, however, stands firm.

So does Gimli.

“What is the meaning of this?” the King under the Mountain yells angrily, and Ori pops his head around the corner.

 _That_ was _not_ part of the plan.

“What is going on here? What did you-”

Leaving Legolas to deal with him Gimli hums, back still against the door.

“I am sure between the two of you you can come up with the reason, being that it is rather cliché,” he rumbles contently. “Also, I should probably add that we are doing this in Dáin’s honour-”

“We??” Thorin exclaims, “Who else is involved in this scheme? Who dares-”

…

Silence.

Wondering whether he should worry Gimli waits for Thorin to continue, for him to rage and riot, and perhaps for Bilbo to yell as well, but-

Nothing.

Not a single sound to be heard.

Even Legolas’ fine ears pick up naught but the occasional chink of cutlery against the plates Bombur’s quite extraordinary feast was served on. Apart from that there is but… silence.

Silence, for all the hours until noon, until Dwalin and Kíli take over. The only words to be exchanged in both the room and the corridor are a short whispered situation report, and then there is more silence.

And even more.

And more-

Silence when Fíli and Thranduil arrive, and silence when Bofur and Bifur take over for the last of the four periods.

(Nori, it turns out, is a _very_ useful dwarf to be part of a conspiracy, seeing as how he keeps them all up to date.)

Silence, when all nine of the conspirators meet the following day in the morning (all but Gandalf, who is off and away), eager to see the fruit of their labour-

Bifur is the one to remove the bolt, dark eyes sparkling with excitement.

The door opens with a rather ominous creak…

First their eyes reach the wobbly table, and the empty plates (wow, Bilbo _really_ does his hobbity eating habits credit, considering that not even Bombur thought they would be able to eat it all in one day-), before sliding across the room. There is a chair in the far corner, hidden in the shadows next to the fireplace. It is by far the most comfortable of all, Gimli having dragged it in the night before, and Thorin is sprawled across it, eyes closed, with Bilbo curled up in his lap-

Fíli _whoops_ , raising his hand to meet his brother’s with a loud smack.

“Finally!” Kíli exclaims, and Bofur attempts a jig of glee, with Bifur excitedly chatting away in Khuzdul-

Gimli, however, stands frozen.

So does Legolas.

And Thranduil.

And Dwalin.

And Nori-

Slowly, ever so _slowly_ , Thorin opens first one eye, then another (Gimli is greatly reminded of an elderly Bilbo’s stories about his first encounter with Smaug-), an arrogant smirk curling around his lips-

Oh no, _really_?

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Dwalin groans, shutting the boys up rather quickly. “Are you fucking _serious_?”

“How long?” Gimli demands, strong hands at his hips, “how long??”

Bilbo, too, opens an eye, before burying his head in the crook of Thorin’s neck. “Told you,” he murmurs, winding slender arms around the King’s strong torso, “that it would be more fun this way.”

Thorin hums contently, nodding along. His beard scrapes against the hobbit’s sensitive cheeks, and Bilbo wiggles happily in the dwarf’s lap-

“You were right, my clever hobbit,” the King rumbles, eyes closed again but the mean smile still dancing on his lips. “Your ingenious scheme brought us not only an endless amount of amusement, but also a free day and a truly delicious feast…”

“Since when??” Gimli demands, again.

“Hmm. The morning of the Battle? When you left us behind so ruthlessly, staring at each other as we were?” the hobbit offers, brazenness audible in his voice even though his lips are still hidden against the King’s neck.

“What??”

“We all thought Thorin buggered it up,” Dwalin exclaims, and Bilbo snorts.

“He almost did- _iieek_!”

Squeaking, he flinches away from Thorin’s tickling fingers, and Gimli turns to find the princes standing behind him, mouths opened incredulously.

“Wait- … are you saying?-”

“-That you have been…-”

“-Well, _together_ -”

“-For _weeks_?-”

“Nori?” Ori exclaims, “What are you doing here?” Staring at his brother he stands frozen for a moment, before shaking it off. “Never mind, is Thorin here? Balin sent me – a group of elves has been sighted coming up from Mirkwood, one of which Haldir has identified as Lord Glorfindel. The Lady Dís will be here within the hour!”

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said.
> 
>  _So_ not my fault.


End file.
